Yet Another Unrelated Bunch of Stories
by 3cheersforidiots
Summary: Written for the International Wizarding School Championships. And as a reminder: Mahoutokoro is the best. Current: Finals - Morning Sun - In which Parvati and Hermione talk.
1. Wards and Curses

**A/N: Man, finding the right word for 'senior' in Russian is more of a challenge than I thought. Also, this wasn't exactly what I had planned, but the basic idea is the same. Enjoy!**

 **Written for the International Wizarding School Challenge** – Round 1: Durmstrang (for Mahoutokoro students) – Main Prompt: (action) a fight), Other prompts: (object) a wand, (colour) purple

 **Word count** : 2317 (MS Word)

* * *

Vladimir was having a tiresome, yet relatively peaceful day. That is, until his neighbour and, as far as the title goes, best friend, Andrei burst in, his hair more dishevelled than usual, and an agitated look on his face.

"What the hell are you doing, Vlad?!" Andrei asked, his gaze stopping on Vladimir's wand, out of which a stream of light purple smoke was coming out, drifting towards and up through the ceiling.

"Nothing," Vladimir replied, his pupils slightly diluted, as though he was trying to convey a feeling of genuine innocence. "I'm working on my project for Unseen Magics. I've got an idea going for the Wards topic. As you can see, it's still in the making, but my spell is looking better and better by the day."

"That's not what I'm talking about!" Andrei exclaimed, a slight red tint appearing on his cheeks. "One of the _starshiy_ came up to me a few minutes ago and reprimanded me for apparently being responsible for the snake bites of a _mladshiy_! They said it couldn't have been anyone else, since their room is right above mine, and no one was in the vicinity at the time it happened!"

"And?" Vlad queried, raising his eyebrows slightly. The purple smoke coming from his wand continued making its way through the ceiling, up to where his upper dorm neighbour lived.

"It was caused by a cursed ward!" Andrei continued with a raised voice. His nostrils flared slightly, and his agitated expression soon turned into that of frustration. "There's no one in this dorm building who's experimenting with wards, other than yourself! The nearest person whose project topic is Wards is Tatiana Petrovna, and she lives in the Zhernakov Dorm. That's way too far for her to be involved!"

"Hmm," Vlad tapped his shaven chin and narrowed his eyes for a moment. "But that doesn't mean it was me. I mean, yeah, I do create wards and the like, but I've never seen any of them causing snake bites."

"Not just snake bites," Andrei added. "The boy had scars reminiscent of lightning strikes, and he was coughing up some sort of black slime all the way to the Infirmary."

"Huh," Vlad said, furrowing his eyebrows. "Well, I doubt it's my fault, but that's interesting. I never really thought about adding acute curses like that to my wards, but it'd definitely give some boost to my project. Don't you think?"

"That's not the point!" Andrei's face was now a bright red, and his narrowed eyes were sparkling, as though they were ready to strike Vladimir, so as to give him scars not unlike that of the poor boy's from the floor above.

"What is, then? I told you it wasn't me!" Vlad replied, his previous peaceful mood dropping a little.

"That boy is twelve years old!" Andrei shouted. "It's his first year in Durmstrang! You can't expect a child who's just finished Nachalnaya to be doing advanced grey magic like this!"

"I'm telling you, it wasn't me!" Vladimir retorted, a bubble of anger rising in his stomach.

"Then who was it?"

"How should I know?! I wasn't even there!"

"No one was there, except for me and the little boy!"

"How do I know then that you're not just trying to frame me for whatever you've done to him?" Vlad asked, stopping in his tracks for a moment.

"I've already been reprimanded for this! If it was me, don't you think I would've just accepted the whole thing and went on with my life? Why the hell would I accuse you, of all people, if I didn't know very well that you're the most likely person to have done it?!"

"Because you're always such a goody-two-shoes! I understand, you prefer light magic, but that's not all there is to it! There's so much more you can do with magic, but you're not open enough to see it!"

"Is that the 'so much more' you want to do? Cause snake bites, lightning strike scars and slime vomiting in children? Is that what you want to use your magic for?"

"I didn't do it!" Vladimir shouted, hopping up from his seat and gripping his smoking wand tight.

"But you did!" Andrei retaliated, drawing his own wand. "Whether you're aware of or not, you must know somewhere deep inside that it was your doing. And you know what? I'm fairly sure it's all about that purple smoke you've been letting out of your wand!"

" _Silencio!_ " Vladimir shouted as he aimed his wand at Andrei, who deflected his spell with ease. As the spell, on its redirected way, hit the window, a rumble seemed to shake the floor, but the two boys seemed not to notice.

" _Reducto_!" It was Vladimir, this time, that deflected the spell which struck the dorm room's wall.

" _Confringo!_ " " _Expulso!_ " " _Incarcerous!_ "

As the curses kept on flying, the rumble shaking the dorm seemed to increase in magnitude, though Vladimir and Andrei were preoccupied with their duel. Some spells hit the walls and various objects in Vladimir's room, and some of them flew out the window and into the distance.

But then, a shrilling scream rang through the dorm, coming straight from above Vladimir and Andrei. At the same time, the building shook like it had never before, almost to the point of collapsing as it were. Meanwhile, some of the professors and teaching assistants could be seen hastily running towards where the border of the school's grounds was. Vladimir and Andrei, losing their balance from the apparent earthquake under their dorm, toppled to the floor. Vladimir, scrambling to his feet and reaching for his wand, noted that the purple smoke seemed to have vanished. Yet, he could sense a weird spike in his magic, and a weird tug in the direction of his upper neighbour. As though he was connected to something in there, something that may have caused the shriek moments earlier.

Vladimir furrowed his eyebrows in concentration as he stumbled across his room to a stationary Andrei, trying not to fall over as the violent rumbles continued.

"Hey, Andrei!" He shook his friend's shoulders, but he only received a few painful blinks in return, as though Andrei was struggling to keep his consciousness. "Andrei, are you with me?"

His friend blinked a few more times, then nodded slowly. "Can't…" he spoke, but couldn't finish his sentence.

"Okay, okay," Vladimir pressed his index finger to Andrei's mouth. "I think I fucked something up. I'm not sure what it is, but it probably has to do with that purple smoke I conjured up earlier. It disappeared, but I still feel the magic, and…" he stopped briefly, trying to decipher whether he should go into more detail. "And I think it might be causing some of this mess."

He looked at his friend's face once again. Andrei was still on the verge of passing out as he stared with an empty expression at Vladimir. The latter stood up all of a sudden, and took a few steps in the door's direction.

"I must see what's going on. Hold on, mate," he said as he stepped out of the room and rushed towards the stairs leading up to the next floor.

"Oh, _blyat_!" Vladimir muttered under his breath every other second as he borderline flew up the stairs and towards the room he felt that magical tug coming from. Once there, he pushed the door open, and was instantly hit by a large cloud of purple smoke. Although he couldn't see where his steps took him, he went forwards, searching for the source of the smoke in the blind hope that he could possibly do something with it. After a few steps, however, he almost fell over as he bumped into the body of who he assumed to be his neighbour.

As Vladimir crouched down to take a look at the boy, he saw blood steadily flowing out of his nose, and his right arm bended in an unnatural angle, along with a couple of scars on his face, vaguely reminiscent of snake bites.

It didn't take long for the realisation to hit. For a while, Vladimir crouched there, inside the room of a stranger, as the weight of the situation dawned upon him. He might have just caused some irreversible damage to a person, the school, and his own best friend. He sat there, pondering his decisions, as a wave of desperation washed over him.

He wanted to make it better. He's already done what he's done, and he wanted to try to stop it, but he had no clue. He didn't think about a counter-spell for the ward he'd been working on.

Vladimir looked at his wand and felt another tug coming from his right. Before standing up, he muttered a quick _Sanguis Stupor_ at the poor bleeding boy—the only spell he knew for stopping bleeding. He then let his body be carried by the magical connection to whatever object he cursed with that purple smoke.

Only a few moments passed before he was holding an innocuous-looking pen, one that, amazingly enough, was letting out an enormous amount of magical energy. As Vladimir gripped the pen, the rumbling in the building seemed to have halted, leaving an unfamiliar sense of stillness in Vladimir. Keeping the pen tight in his palm, Vladimir looked at his wand, pondering what to do.

Trying out foreign and new spells might worsen the case, he thought. But conventional spells might no work. He was in a dilemma. He knew there was something needed to be done, but there were simply no answers as to what that action could be.

" _Finite_ ," he cast the spell after he'd decided that there was nothing else he could do. Much to his dismay, nothing happened, except for a small nudge from the pen.

" _Finite Maxima_?" he tried again, but again, nothing, except for a nudge, larger in magnitude than the last one.

"Okay," Vladimir muttered. "Something stronger. _Modum Extinctus_!"

The pen dropped from his hand, but nothing else happened. Fortunately, the rumbling did not start anew. Vladimir picked up the pen again, scrutinising it as though that would help him.

"Even stronger?" he pondered. He tried to remember the strongest general counter-spell he'd ever learned.

" _Incantamentum cesso_!" he said finally. The pen ripped itself from his hand, spun around in the air, emitting a light purple glow, until it decided on a direction. When it stopped, everything stood still for a moment.

But then, the pen disappeared from view, and a grand explosion knocked Vladimir to the floor. In the moments before he lost consciousness, he thought, "What the hell have I done?"

* * *

Vladimir woke up in the Infirmary. Interestingly enough, his joints weren't aching, and he was clear-minded as usual, save for the drowsiness that usually accompanied his longer sleeps.

He turned his head to the right. In the bed adjacent to his, Andrei sat, eating what looked to be some sort of hot soup. Maybe borscht. He wanted to eat borscht, too, if he thought about it. Especially the kind his mother would always make when he was home.

"Andrei?" he spoke in a raspy voice.

"Vlad? You're awake," Andrei noted, taking another sip of his soup.

"I'm sorry," Vlad said, looking at his hands. "Although I'm not sure what it was that I did, I probably shouldn't have done it."

"Hmm," Andrei responded. "Well, you're right about that."

"And about that light magic thing I said," Vlad continued, "I still think you're a goody-two-shoes and you're not appreciating how vast the boundaries of magic are, but I probably shouldn't have said that. At least not at the time. Maybe sometime later, after the whole thing died down."

"I suppose you're also right about that," Andrei said as he looked out the window across the two of them.

"Anyway, I just kind of realised while trying to do something about the whole situation that I probably should have asked the professor about this project before starting on it. Besides, it should have been telling that the purple smoke coming out my wand went through the ceiling." Vlad stopped for a while. "Right, what happened with my wand anyway?"

"Oh, I think it broke sometime after you went up. I'm not sure how, 'cause I wasn't really there, but yeah. You'll probably need another," Andrei replied.

"Oh," was all Vlad could say. "Well, anyway, what I'm trying to say is that it might have been me in the wrong this time. This doesn't mean I'm generally in the wrong, but this was an exception of sorts. You know?"

"Glad to see you haven't changed," Andrei said with a roll of his eyes. "You should be more worried about being expelled after this, though."

"I'll worry about that when I recover." Vlad shook his head. "Have you heard anything about what happened?"

"Not much, but I overheard some teaching assistants talking about it while we were supposed to sleep. I think there was something about a hole being blown in the Durmstrang wards because of a stray curse that was apparently combined with some exceptionally strong warding magic, and a bunch of _nemagicheskiy_ being obliviated."

" _Blyat_ ," Vlad cursed.

"Yeah, and the explosions and the rumbling in the dorm was about a powerful cursed ward being set off by a third year. He had some serious injuries when they brought him in apparently," Andrei continued. "Though, I wouldn't know for sure. I was out for three days."

"Then how long have I been here?" Vlad asked, suddenly horrified.

"About a week, maybe?" Andrei said.

"That's a long time," Vlad noted. "Okay, I guess I'm not doing this again. At least not in the foreseeable future."

"Good idea, mate," answered Andrei, gulping down the last of his soup.

* * *

 **A/N: Hope you enjoyed! Honestly, looking up words to do stuff almost took longer than writing. Foreign words and spells used:**

Starshiy – senior (Russian)

Mladshiy – junior (Russian)

Nachalnaya – literally, 'primary' in primary school in Russian. Here, I intended this to be the name of another wizarding school for children aged 6-12, as a preparatory school for Durmstrang.

Blyat – fuck (Russian)

Sanguis Stupor – literally means something like 'stop blood.' Here, a spell used to stop bleeding. (Latin)

Modum Extinctus – literally 'extinguish effect.' Here, a strong counter-spell that stops the effect of a previous curse. (Latin)

Incantamentum cesso – 'cease incantation.' An even stronger counter-spell for removing curses from an object (can be a living object as well). (Latin)

Nemagicheskiy – literally, 'not magical.' Here, means Muggles. (Russian)


	2. The Otherwise Auspicious Night of Explos

**A/N: Okay, so this is a mess, but at least I did a thing. I also completely forgot that Lavender was supposed to die in the Battle of Hogwarts. Figures.**

 **A/N 2: I had an amazing idea for sort of warped parallel reality fic while writing this. If I have the time (which I don't, but maybe once, sometime in the future), I'm totally gonna make something of it.**

 **Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry:** Assignment #2/Folklore Task #9 – Write about somebody making a decision they regret.

 **The International Wizarding School Championships:** Round #2 – Theme: Confundus (for Mahoutokoro), Main prompt: Lavender Brown/Seamus Finnigan (pairing), Other prompts: The Three Broomsticks (setting), Valentine's Day (event)

 **Word count** : 2512 (MS Word)

* * *

Seamus closed his eyes as soon as he had opened them, as he couldn't bear the piercing, bright light coming from the window. Turning onto his stomach, he decided to approach his apparently faulty eyesight and the oncoming headache he felt in a different manner. He placed his hands on the sides of his face to block most of the light coming in, and he tried squinting first. When his eyes adjusted, he removed his hands and gradually pushed himself into a seal-like position, letting more and more light in as his duvet slipped from his head. He briefly wondered just what people would think if they saw him in this position, and he concluded that they'd probably think he'd been hit with a Confundus charm.

Seeing as there was nobody to make snide comments about his posture, however, he eventually flipped back onto his back and looked around. Taking in his surroundings, he noticed he was in the Hospital Wing of Hogwarts—a place he knew very well from his days at the school. He also noted that aside from the numerous Hogwarts students, there were also a couple of people of Seamus's age—probably in their mid-20s—in some of the beds.

For a moment, Seamus felt confused as to how they'd all got there. As the realisation dawned upon him, however, his previously curious eyes took on an expression of distaste as his face contorted at the memories that came back flooding.

At first, the pictures were hazy; he could remember bright flashes, the Three Broomsticks in chaos, and somebody with long, light brown hair grabbing his wrist and pulling him to the ground. Then, as the events came back bit by bit, Seamus pieced together the long string of events that ended up in him being hospitalised. And as it did, he felt a wave of regret mixed with anger wash over him.

He shouldn't have done what he did. No matter the lost opportunity, and missing the reward of a lifetime, this was definitely not something he should have accepted.

* * *

It had been an uneventful Friday night for Seamus. He'd done very little to be productive; as soon as he'd finished work for the day, he'd headed back to his home and laid down to rest. Later, he'd received a Patronus call from Dean, inviting him to spend the evening at The Cursebreaker's Arms, a pub they frequented every other week. So, he'd gone.

He'd been sitting with a glass of Ogden's Finest in hand for half an hour, Dean nowhere to be seen, when none other than Lavender Brown plopped onto the chair across him with an uncharacteristically serious expression.

"Hello, Seamus," she greeted, fiddling with her fingers as a sign of nervousness.

"Um," Seamus replied, not quite knowing how to respond.

"It's been a while, hasn't it?" Lavender continued, unfazed by the evident anxiousness of her ex-classmate. "Good to see you, though."

"Yeah, I guess," Seamus said, trying to figure out how to politely tell Lavender to get the hell away from his table, and preferably the venue as well. "So, um, well, you may not know, but I'm actually meeting Dean here in a few, and you know, this would be like a meet-up between us guys, so…" he explained, but was cut short by Lavender's easily recognisable chirp.

"Oh, that's not a problem at all," she said. "I've talked with him just a couple of minutes ago because actually, I wanted to talk to you, and he agreed, so everything should be fine now."

"Um," was all Seamus could say.

"So, anyway, I have a favour, no, more like a deal for you," Lavender continued. Seamus nodded, mentally cursing Dean for being a traitor and leaving him in a situation like this. "Tomorrow's Valentine's Day, and you know what that means?"

"No?" Seamus hesitated.

"Of course you don't." Lavender nodded. "Well, what you have to know is that we have this tradition with Parvati of causing chaos on Valentine's Day, but since she's visiting family in India right now, I need an accomplice."

Seamus furrowed his eyebrows. "Why would you always cause chaos on Valentine's Day? That's not very characteristic of you; I'd have taken you for a girl that adores Valentine's Day."

"I did, once." Lavender nodded again, placing her chin on her palms. "But not anymore; not for the past couple of years, actually."

"Why?" Seamus asked, though as soon as he did so, he winced internally. As curious as he was, he wasn't a person to meddle in people's personal lives, and particularly not Lavender Brown's.

"It was a couple of years ago, and my life was really going downhill. I was mourning at the time," Lavender said with a sinister face. "My father had just died days before, and I had broken up with my ex not long after I'd heard the news. You can imagine how that was," she lamented in a bitter tone.

"Well, sorry about that," Seamus mumbled, not quite sure why she was telling him this. It's not as though they'd ever been that close.

"I'm over it," Lavender dismissed with a wave of her hand, her cheeriness coming back to life before fading into contempt again. "Anyway, on that particular Valentine's Day, me and Parvati were sitting in Three Broomstick, discussing my ruined life, when somebody," she gritted her teeth, "literally blew a hole in the wall, let hundreds of fireworks loose, and as a grand finale, set up a charm that made the firework explosion spell out 'Lavender, you deserve your shitty life.' That, written in sparkling letters, to be seen for all of Hogsmeade! And before you ask, I've been searching for this person ever since it happened, but nothing's come up, and the Aurors didn't even bother to trace the charm that evening."

"Weird," Seamus said. "They usually do tracing even with the smallest of petty crimes. But anyway, why would they do that?"

"Dunno." Lavender shook her head. "Suppose they hate me that much. I can't help being more successful than them, though," she said, rolling her eyes. "But basically, Parvati and I have been out for revenge since then. We have a clue, though. There's a girl who looks almost exactly like me, who's always at the Three Broomsticks on Valentine's Day, and she always looks somewhat wary to be there. We don't know who it is, but it might be her."

"Why haven't you confronted her?" Seamus asked. "And why do you need me?"

"You're an expert in explosives," Lavender stated, ignoring the first question. "I mean, I didn't think you would, but you even made a career out of blowing things up. And I need just that."

"Fair enough," Seamus conceded, though his eyes remained narrowed. "What's in it for me?"

"I just so happen to know," Lavender began without hesitation, "that you're looking for an old tome, and your next project, and possibly a promotion, depends on it. I also know where to find this tome, since the only copy is a part of the Brown family library."

"Really?" Seamus perked up. He's been looking for a resource to help him in creating a noiseless explosion runestone.

"My grand-grandpa invented the _Bombarda_ spell," Lavender commented as though it was the most natural thing in the world. "I could also get his portrait to chat with you sometime."

"That'd be amazing!" Seamus exclaimed. His momentary euphoria even made him forget who was sitting in front of him. "You're awesome!"

"If you help me out." Lavender twirled a strand of hair in her fingers.

"When did you become such a Slytherin?" Seamus slumped back into his seat as he realised they were not done yet.

"In the past couple of years." Lavender shrugged. "So, deal?"

Seamus had wanted to consider his options carefully, but the thought of his runestone finally working as expected caused a momentary lapse in his judgement, so without a missing beat, he said, "Deal!" And he gave an unwelcome high-five to Lavender with a grin on his face.

* * *

As Seamus crouched beneath one of the windows of the Three Broomsticks, he wondered just how bad a decision he'd made.

He had the detonator runestone in hand, waiting for Lavender to give the sign. She was peering through the window, looking for the girl she'd mentioned last night.

"So, whenever she enters, the plan begins," Lavender reiterated for what felt like the hundredth time. "We detonate the runestone, which should throw the whole place into confusion. Then I go in unnoticed, confront the girl, and hex her into oblivion."

How her suspicion turned into assurance overnight, Seamus had no idea, but he nodded anyway. If everything went well, he'd get to meet the inventor of _Bombarda_ , and the tome he'd been searching for forever.

"Yeah, you've already told me at least a thousand times," he noted. "I'm not stupid."

"You never know." Lavender shrugged. "Anyway, so when this all ends—there she is! Do it, Seamus!"

Seamus was thrown off by the sudden shriek as Lavender spotted the girl entering the Three Broomsticks, so he hesitated for a moment. When Lavender sent him a murderous gaze seconds later, the plan came back to mind, and with a sigh and a short prayer to Merlin, Seamus threw the runestone through the window. He cast the charm as the glass shattered, and soon enough, there was a loud _boom_ from inside.

Seamus was relieved not to have his eardrums burst, but the relief turned into anxiety after Lavender hopped up next to him.

"Alright, here we go," she said, slipping through the broken window.

Seamus remained outside, but he stood to take a peek on what was happening. Most people in the bar looked utterly confused and panicked. It was, in terms of their mission, a good idea that Seamus had imbued the stone with a _Confundus_ as well as the explosives, since most adults who had their wands out turned away from the broken window, letting Lavender go unnoticed. The rest of the customers were either running around, seeming not to notice the exit, or sitting in fear, looking around with frantic motions. It would have even been comical, had it not been for the determined Lavender cornering the girl, who was sitting on one of the benches.

" _Finite_ ," Seamus saw Lavender cast. The girl's expression cleared, and as her gaze travelled up to meet Lavender's, her face contorted to show disgust with a hint of wariness.

"What do you want?" she seemed to say as her arms travelled towards where Seamus believed her wand to be.

"Retaliation," Lavender stated. "I don't care why you did it, but I want my justice."

"Did what?" the girl barked.

"You know very well, so there's no point in pretending," Lavender said as she raised her wand, the two looking at each other with murderous expressions.

"But I was right, you know," the girl noted, also pointing her wand at Lavender with the speed of light. "You deserved what you did."

"You don't know me!" Lavender shouted. Thankfully, as everyone else was under the influence of the _Confundus_ , no one turned a head.

"I know you better than anyone else," the girl retorted, standing up to meet Lavender's height.

Seamus, as he watched the confrontation unfold, briefly wondered what the girl had meant. In a moment, though, he realised he was in a really bad position, and he probably should have fled by now. He was regretting this whole ordeal, more than almost anything in his life, except for maybe that one time when…

He stopped mid-thought as he heard a loud crash from inside the bar. Lavender was scraping herself off the floor and retaliated by sending the girl into the rubble right behind her. The girl deflected the spell, but was too slow on the follow-up, and she was blasted into the wall with a screech.

" _Stupefy!_ " Lavender shouted, but the girl threw up a shield just in time.

" _Expelliarmus!_ " the girl shouted, and Lavender's wand gracefully landed in the girl's hand, which was already full of cuts and scratches. "Now what?" she shouted haughtily, climbing to her feet in victory.

Seamus thought that had been a bad idea, as he saw Lavender get ready to charge.

"You bitch!" she shrieked, launching herself forward and into the girl. As the two of them fell onto another pile of rubble, the two hazelnut wands rolled to the side, forgotten. Lavender grabbed the girl's hair and started tugging on it as she continued her incomprehensible screeching, while the girl was tearing at Lavender's clothes as the two struggled on the floor.

"I wish you'd died years ago!" the girl shouted as the two rolled over in their fight.

"What have I done to you?" Lavender questioned in a similar tone. "I've never even met you! I don't know who you are!"

"But you do!" the girl retorted as she punched Lavender in the nose. Lavender shrieked and grabbed the girl by the collar.

"I! Don't! Know! You!" she exclaimed.

Seamus had a weird feeling about this, as he furrowed his eyebrows at the unfolding scene. There was something wrong with the whole scenario, but he couldn't quite put his finger on it.

Not that he had time, either. One of the wizards holding their wand in the bar turned around all of a sudden, and gasped at the two fighting girls. The Confundus seemed to have worn off.

"Oh, shit," Seamus muttered as he decided to make a run for it. It wasn't very Gryffindor of him, but he wasn't about to spend the remainder of his life in Azkaban. With how strict the Ministry was these days, he was sure he'd get at least a lifetime sentence if he was caught.

As he hopped onto his two feet and sprinted off, he heard shouting and somebody threatening to call the Aurors. He was just about five metres off the walls when he felt somebody grab his wrist and order him to get down. He saw a flash of brown hair falling on the ground next to him as a second explosion went off, knocking him out cold before he could wonder what had happened in the matter of those past few seconds.

* * *

Seamus groaned again, his headache getting stronger by the minute. He inwardly condemned himself for being a stupid wizard, and for accepting the deal in the first place.

He was not sure who the girl could have been, nor did he know whether the Aurors would detain him as soon as somebody let them know he'd woken up, but something was still bothering him about last night. Something still felt out of place.

But seeing as he would probably never know, he tried to let go of the feeling, and think of something nicer. Like the tome Lavender promised him.

One thing, however, he was sure of. He would never make a deal with Lavender Brown—or Parvati Patil, for that matter—ever again.


	3. Silence of the Plants

**A/N: Yeah, I wanted to write this sooner, but I was lazy. Also, I was distracted by a pretty cool and pretty long Dramione. Happens.**

 **A/N 2: The OG title for this fic is 'And The Years Start Coming,' and I just find it hilarious how I used a meme for the title of a full-on angst fic. Hah. I'm a mess.**

 **International Wizarding School Championships:** Round 3: Potions – Amortentia (so a not real love in some form). Main prompt: cauldron (object), Other prompts: drizzling rain (weather), begging (action)

 **Word count (MS Word):** 1841

 **Thanks and virtual cookies to Tiggs for betaing :)**

* * *

Hannah Abbott relished in the feeling of water droplets streaming down her cheeks. She felt as though the weather understood her; the drizzling rain felt vaguely similar to how her heart had shattered into a million pieces all those years ago. The raindrops cleansed away and replaced her tears, and the grey clouds looming over her gave her a sense of familiarity; they reminded her of the pain she had felt, and been feeling ever since.

She tightened her grip on the small cauldron pendant. Neville had given it to her for their fifth anniversary and oftentimes, while Neville was at Hogwarts, unable to come home from his duties as Head of Gryffindor, she would hold it close to her heart to remind her: he was still there. He would come home during the next school holiday. He would greet her with his sheepish smile, show her one of the exotic plants he'd grown in his free time in the greenhouses, and he'd talk to her about his best students for hours. While he was home, he'd tend to the little yard they had all day long, but he would always pay attention to have a cup of warm tea ready for Hannah when she came home after a long day of work.

She had been happy, in love, and certain that things would stay this way. She had been convinced they would grow old together, maybe have children, maybe not, and no matter the years as they flew by, they would continue to watch the sunset together while sitting in their garden, smiling and happy.

But of course, life is not perfect. In a series of tragic events, Hannah had to learn that loss comes even, or especially, to the unsuspecting. As she held the little shiny cauldron pendant tight and looked up, the drizzling rain leaving pellets of water everywhere it reached, she thought back to that horrible, horrible day.

* * *

 _It was one of those rare days when Hannah decided to stay home and leave the Leaky Cauldron to Elisa, one of her senior waitresses and a long-time friend._

 _She was lying on the couch in the living room, having finished her lunch a couple of minutes prior. She wore the cauldron pendant around her neck, as she always did, holding today's_ Daily Prophet _in hand, flipping through the Home & Family section. She had always been amused by how sematic the Agony Aunt section was, but she always read it anyway, just to entertain herself._

 _She was just about to begin reading a discussion about how to deal with sneaky Boggarts in the cellar, when she heard a muffled scream coming from the direction of the gardens and the small greenhouse Neville had installed just a couple of months before. She jumped to her feet, the newspaper gracelessly landing on the floor, and rushed to see what was happening. Fortunately for her, on the way out, she grabbed a pair of ear plugs in a haste, as she suspected something might have gone wrong because of that, and because the screams were making her feel dizzy and her head ache._

 _As she ripped the door of the greenhouse open, she was met with a sight she would never forget. A flower pot lay right in front of her foot, some pieces broken off and scattered around. Next to the pot was a screaming plant that looked eerily similar to a human, except for the skin that resembled that of a root, and the shoots that sprung out of its head. Hannah assumed it must have been a Mandrake—she vaguely remembered them from her Hogwarts years, and how Professor Sprout had instructed both Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws to wear their earmuffs properly, plus she remembered the project Neville had mentioned to her. He'd wanted to enhance the effects of some potions with Mandrake leaves, if her memory served her right._

 _But she had no time to ponder on what Neville had been doing with the Mandrakes. As her eyes left the plant, her hands shot to the pendant around her neck, gripping it so tight that one of its parts punctured her fingers. Blood dripped down on her hands, staining her clothes, but she didn't care. Her thoughts were somewhere else._

 _Neville lay there, his usually kind, loving eyes now glassy and directed towards the ceiling. His expression was one that of shock mixed with what Hannah thought was regret, something she rarely, if ever, saw. His limbs were unmoving; he was still, too still and too cold._

 _Hannah cast a quick_ Silencio _on the plant that finally shut it up as she kneeled next to her life partner, the person she had loved for whoever knew how long, the pain caused by her cauldron pendant barely registering._

" _Neville!" she spoke with a hint of urgency. "Neville, can you hear me?"_

 _There was no answer, and even as Hannah shook his shoulders, the body remained still. Hannah felt a rush of panic as she checked for any signs of life. He wasn't breathing, and his heart wasn't beating, a sound that would always sooth her whenever they cuddled on their bed._

 _She felt bile rise in her throat as her breathing got quicker. She leaned back against the wall of the building, unable to look away from the love of her life, dead because of a stupid magical plant. The cauldron pendant grew cold around her neck as she let her hands fall, blood oozing from where it had cut her._

* * *

She visited the grave every other day, sitting cross-legged in the dirt and holding onto her pendant as though her life depended on it. It had been three years since Neville's death, and her life had never been the same ever since. She rarely turned up to work, leaving the management of her pub to Elisa. She had next to no appetite, and the less she ate, the more weight she lost. She knew it was unhealthy, but she couldn't force down any food she made; she would always feel like vomiting afterwards. The only solace to her was the cauldron pendant, the only remainder of the love she suspected would never fade.

She had loved Neville. She supposed she still did, and the thought made her miss him all that much more. Before, it had scared Hannah to think of death, especially following the war, but for the past three years, she had become increasingly convinced that it was just not worth living. Her life was meaningless without Neville. Maybe everything would be better off without her. After all, she could finally reunite with her love, and would not have to endure the pain anymore. Maybe it was all for the better.

As she contemplated, the rain got heavier, from drizzling to pouring, but she didn't mind. It portrayed her feelings well. She didn't even notice the cloaked person standing next to her, until they spoke.

"Hannah." The voice was soft but laced with worry and something fearful. Hannah spun around, her thoughts interrupted, her pupils dilating.

The person pulled the cloak down to reveal a woman with puffy cheeks and long, reddish-blond hair.

"Susan." Hannah sighed in recognition. "What are you doing here?"

"I wanted to talk to you," Susan replied, crouching to have her eyes level with Hannah's.

"What about? I'm kinda busy," Hannah said, looking back and forth between the finely engraved marble and her old friend.

"Exactly about that." Susan pointed to the grave. "Listen," she said, resting one of her hands on Hannah's shoulder. "I know it hurts. And I know you know that. My father was killed right after the war had ended, by a Death Eater let loose. Merlin, my mother died not long after because of an accident with some poison she had been investigating. You know all that. You were there, and you saw how I was. I know what losing someone you love feels like."

"Not like this." Hannah shook her head. "Don't you understand? He was the love of my life! The only one!" she raised her voice. "You won't understand that. I'll never be able to love anyone else like that. There's no way."

"Hannah." This time, Susan shook her friend's shoulder. "Look at me." Hannah lifted her tear-stricken face to meet Susan's as the rain, that was now once again a drizzle, soaked through their hair, their clothes, their souls.

"You have to try to move on," Susan said. "You're ruining yourself. You don't really even have a job anymore, you barely eat, you barely go out, and you're scooped up in bed, holding that cauldron pendant all the time. You can't do that to yourself. Please," she begged.

"That's the point," Hannah answered, her expression hardening. "There's no point to doing any of that. He's not here. He's—"

"Not true," Susan interrupted. "Hannah, something terrible happened three years ago. We were all devastated. But what you're thinking is twisting whatever love you had between the two of you. It's not… Obsessing over Neville is not love, it's just that: obsession. So please, I'm begging you, just… just take off that pendant. Or just come with me. Anything, but please, please, don't hurt yourself over something that you had no control over."

"But I do love him," Hannah said, gripping her cauldron pendant so tight it drew blood once again. The rain, mixed with the viscous ruby liquid, dripped down onto the grave. "You just don't understand. I can't take off this pendant. If I do, I'll forget him. If I do, it'll never be the same. I can't do that. I can't just go on with my life. I love him, don't you understand?"

"You don't!" Susan retaliated, raising her voice and putting her other hand on Hannah's shoulder as well. "Please, just consider what I've said for a moment," she went back to her pleading. "Please, come back and be the Hannah I've always known. Please."

"I can't," Hannah whispered, turning away from her friend, wiping her face with her bloody hand.

Susan stared at the ground, tears welling up in her eyes. She, too, felt the rain had somehow understood her feelings, washing away the hope slowly but gradually. She stood, pulling her cloak over her head once again.

"I'll be here tomorrow," she said as she turned to leave. "I'm not above begging, not when it's about bringing one of my friends back to the real world. Stay safe, Hannah."

Hannah heard a soft pop as Susan apparated away. She wanted to believe her, somewhere deep down, but she just couldn't get around the gates of her mind, and the steel wall in her shattered heart that barred her from living a normal life. She just couldn't.

She glanced at her cauldron pendant; the jewellery was cold and lifeless, just as it had been for the past three years. Hannah was certain Susan would be back the next day.

However, she wondered whether she herself would be.


	4. Remembralls and Snow

**A/N: Last minute ideas rock! (Not really, but before the round was posted, I decided I'm gonna write Dramione no matter what, and then prompt just left me like, "Oh, shit…;" so then, I decided to stick with Draco because surely, no one else will. Then, I was like, okay, I can do this, because I managed to get an idea based on the Hogwarts prompts, but then yesterday, I realised I haven't as much as glanced at the prompts, so then there was that part. But I hope something readable will come out of this).**

 **Also, have I ever mentioned that I always write A/Ns before the story itself? Cleaning up my head and all.**

 **Thanks and millions of virtual cookies to Tiggs (whitetiger91) for betaing!**

 **International Wizarding School Championships** Round 4: Divination – School: Mahoutokoro – Theme: Neville is BWL – Main prompt: (colour) red – Other prompts: (Weather) snowing, (speech) "You know, I didn't see that one coming!" he/she gasped.

 **Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry:** Mythology Assignment 4 – Write about someone who is victorious after working at a goal for a long time.

 **Word count:** 2028 (MS Word)

* * *

Draco Malfoy prided himself on always being able to get whatever he wished—or whatever his father wished him to do. However, as his eyes lingered on a hopeless Neville Longbottom as he stumbled through the corridors of Hogwarts Express in search of his beloved toad, a sudden feeling of uneasiness washed over Draco. It occurred to him that maybe, just maybe, he ought not to follow his father's explicit instructions on how to befriend the Boy-Who-Lived to eventually woo him over to his side. Politically speaking, of course.

Making his way down the aisle with steps as graceful as ever, from his peripheral vision, Draco noticed he'd just passed by where that good-for-nothing blood-traitor Weasley sat, along with whom he recognised as Harry Potter, the annoying git raised by his distant uncle—or cousin, for all he cared—Sirius Black. Draco remembered Lucius telling him about how Potter's parents were stuck in St. Mungo's for life—for a reason he couldn't quite remember—and how that landed Potter with Draco's relative.

 _Well_ , he thought, _at least it's not Weasley with that ridiculous scar._

The thought made his otherwise sour mood lighten, but only so much. It wasn't only just that his tutors never told him how to actually befriend somebody, but also that he just didn't see the benefit. He could get whatever he wished, and he never had friends to help him out. Then again, he didn't want to disobey his father. That's not what a proper pureblood would do—or so one of his tutors had told him.

With that thought in mind, Draco set to finding his way back to his compartment. Albeit he couldn't quite suppress his doubt over the whole mission, he was determined. He was a Malfoy, and since Malfoys always got whatever they wanted, he would befriend that damned listless boy with the oh-so-conspicuous scar on the left of his forehead. Without a doubt.

* * *

For the past couple of days, Draco had been wondering how to approach Longbottom, especially after the boy was sorted into Gryffindor. It wouldn't do to simply strike up a conversation—he couldn't make a dent on his Slytherin pride this early into Hogwarts. Despite that, he'd been looking for opportunities to bring attention to himself, so when the opportunity arose on a gloomy morning, he took it and hung on to it.

"Look at Longbottom," he exclaimed, making sure his voice reached the Gryffindor table, trying to come up with something flippant. "I wonder what he forgot. Could it have been his precious toad again?"

There were a couple of snickers coming from his own table as Draco watched the Gryffindor boy's cheeks turn a shade very similar to that of the small Remembrall he was holding. The rest of the lions were seething, and Draco sat back, extremely pleased at himself.

The first stage of his plan was accomplished.

* * *

Except it wasn't. As the weeks passed, Longbottom grew more and more distant upon encountering Draco. He might have been afraid, Draco noted. In hindsight, intimidation might not have been the best idea. He also noted, with quiet resignation—a feeling unbeknownst to him until that point—that maybe he ought to try something else. The thought of giving up didn't cross his mind, strangely enough.

And so, on a cold October afternoon, Draco took to contemplating the techniques he had learned. He thought of the smoke in Longbottom's small Remembrall, as the pure white smoke turned red. The memory, vivid as ever with the eerily familiar red smoke, seemed both like a warning and a reminder of something he couldn't quite place—which surprised Draco. He had good memory; he wasn't forgetful, and he was always punctual. Not wanting to be bothered with the thought anymore, Draco dismissed it and turned his attention to what he believed were more pressing matters, as he leaned back in his bed.

How could he make friends with the boy? Since he had never received advice on that, particularly, the only option left was to use techniques from somewhere else.

What did he have to convince people? Well, there was flattery. He thought that could work. There was also bribery. He wasn't quite sure how to implement that one, but he thought Longbottom was gullible enough to give it a try. There were also more sneaky tactics he had learned, and as he quickly recited his tutor's teachings, coming up with plans for all of them, Draco felt a sense of confidence.

Surely, one of his techniques would have to work.

* * *

Three months and numerous embarrassing mornings and afternoons later, Draco was at a loss as he walked down the third floor corridor on a lazy evening. He had tried everything on his list, yet the Longbottom boy did not seem to get what his intentions were, at all. Quite the contrary, he was now mildly afraid of Draco, and tried to avoid him at all costs. It also could have been due to the fact that the blond's actions seemed very confusing to the entire school in general.

Draco felt frustrated at the prospect. Nothing worked, and even though Malfoys always got whatever they wanted, this one seemed to be very reluctant to budge. But one thing in particular bothered him. The image of the Remembrall, that little ball the Boy-Who-Lived received many months prior, was still etched in his mind. Every time the scene came to mind, he was drawn to the red smoke, as though it signalled something he himself had forgotten. And for Merlin's sake, he couldn't remember what that something could possibly be.

As if on cue, his polished shoes came into contact with… something? Draco peered down to look at the object, when he saw a small, translucent object rolling away from his shoes. He jumped to the Remembrall, deftly catching it and lifting it to scrutinise it better.

To his surprise, the usually white smoke in the ball shifted colour. It went from off-white to a tint of pink, to a rosy colour, to a bright red in a matter of a few seconds. That one baffled Draco. Apparently, his instinct had been right, but the thought of having forgotten something important freaked him out.

He looked at the swirling red smoke, and he felt terror rise in his gut. Was he becoming more and more like Longbottom? Was that it?

But it couldn't be, a little voice rang in his head. Surely, it must be something else.

Desperate to find a possible explanation, Draco held onto the thought. He would have to investigate, and put off the 'Befriending the Boy-Who-Lived' project. Just for the time being, of course.

* * *

When Draco came up short after a few weeks of furious reading, he decided the best course of action would be to ask Longbottom himself. After all, if the boy took the conversation well, he might accomplish two tasks in one.

That was how Draco ended up face-to-face with an anxious-looking Neville Longbottom in one of the lesser used teaching rooms on a Saturday afternoon. The boy's scar stared at him as if it wanted to daunt him. But it didn't—it couldn't.

"W-Why did you bring me here?" Neville asked, a fearful edge to his voice. "Did I do something against you?"

"Oh, no," Draco answered, apparently unfazed by the fact that the boy in front of him was trembling. "I just wanted to converse."

"C-Converse?" Neville said. "About what?" His eyebrows furrowed in confusion.

"This," Draco said, shuffling in his pocket a bit before pulling the Remembrall out. The smoke had never ceased to be bright red after he'd picked it up, which frustrated the blond to no end. "I've found this, and I'd like to give it back to you."

"You found my Remembrall!" Neville gasped. "But… You're Draco Malfoy. What do you want from me?"

Draco sighed. Under normal circumstances, he would have relished in the feeling of superiority, but this was another matter entirely. It would be difficult to erase this impression of him if he wanted the Longbottom boy to regard him as a friend.

"Well, I think this is broken anyway, because I didn't forget anything and it's still red, so nothing much," he relented. "Here."

He stretched his hand holding the ball for Neville to take. However, as the brunette touched the Remembrall, Draco felt a flash of something, something that he had buried a long time ago.

* * *

 _It was snowing. Very hard._

" _Father, why can't we go back to the Manor?" a much younger Draco moaned as his small feet moved quickly next to his father's long strides. They were on Diagon Alley, headed towards Madam Malkin's._

" _Shush, child," his father dismissed. Draco pouted, but didn't say another word, until he heard a high-pitched scream and a_ thud _behind him. Little Draco turned around to see a mousy-haired boy on the ground, clutching his knee in pain. Draco supposed he must have slipped on the ice._

 _Without thinking, he walked over and extended a hand to the boy._

" _Come, get up," he said as the boy clutched his extended arm and tried to pull himself up._

" _Thank you," the boy said as he regarded the snowflakes on his coat. He had a weird scar on his forehead. It was almost a triangle, but with one of the sides dangling off, not quite reaching the other. He had never seen a scar like that before._

" _How did you get that scar?" Draco asked, and the boy was about to open his mouth when Lucius grabbed Draco's arm and pulled him away._

* * *

 _It was snowing again, and Draco wanted to go home again, as his father took his long strides towards Madam Malkin's. As he sulked, he didn't notice he had dropped his favourite Snitch plushie, the one he insisted they bring with themselves to Diagon Alley despite the snow and the apparent lack of use for the toy._

 _Draco continued tiptoeing down the icy walkway, the snow melting in his striking blond hair, when he felt a tap on his shoulder. He turned his head around, coming face-to-face with a boy with mousy-hair and a weird, almost-triangle-shaped scar on his forehead._

" _You dropped this." The boy held out his precious Snitch plushie._

" _Oh," Draco replied, snatching the plushie from the boy's hands in a quick and possessive manner. "Thanks," he said in a tiny voice, the set of words feeling foreign as he mouthed them._

" _No problem." The boy nodded. Draco, not knowing what to do, turned back and ran to catch up with his father._

* * *

Draco looked at Longbottom, a long-hidden revelation apparent on his face. The other boy looked the same, and the red smoke in the Remembrall faded, coming to its usual, soothing pure white colour.

Neville spoke first. "You know, I didn't see that one coming," he gasped.

Draco didn't reply. Instead, he contemplated his next actions. Was this the way to make friends? Helping them?

He also felt somewhat ashamed to have forgotten. That was a weird and foreign feeling as well.

"Yeah," he managed to get out. "That was before my father told me who you were."

"Thought so," Neville replied.

"Hey," Draco said all of a sudden, momentarily losing control of his usual, cold attire. Neville perked up from gaping at his Remembrall in awe. "I just… wanted to befriend you." With no options left, he went for the most straightforward and least Slytherin solution of them all.

"Friends," Neville repeated, disbelief clear in his voice.

"I suppose," Draco added quietly. "My tutors never told me how to do that, though."

"Huh," Neville said, looking a lot more relaxed than before. "I'm not very good at making friends either. And you're a Slytherin, so I can't really trust you, but I guess if you really want to be friends, then… then I guess we can be friends?" He extended his right arm, waiting for Draco to shake it.

The blond, feeling extremely relieved, shook Longbottom's hand. His plan, surprisingly, had succeeded.

Really, who thought Remembralls could be such powerful objects?


	5. Blood White

**Warnings for character death and mentions of suicide. All aboard HMS Angst!**

 **A/N: So, upon reading this round's theme, I was elated to be able to kill off my favourite characters. But damn, the prompts are a struggle. Also notice the meme; if you do, you get virtual cookies (and might I say, my virtual cookies are fiiiine). Also notice my not so subtle reference to most post-war Dramione stories. Damn, do I feel bad about myself for doing this.**

 **International Wizarding School Championship Round 6** – School: Mahoutokoro, Year: 1, Theme: Avada Kedavra, Main Prompt: (object) Invisibility Cloak, Other Prompts: (action) Stun/Stupefy, (dialogue) "I'm your wife; I'm the greatest good you'll ever have."

 **Word count:** 2967

* * *

Hermione woke to a blinding white sky above, her brown locks sprawled around her in a mess, with a strange, stingy feeling around her heart. Slowly, she pushed herself up and took in her surroundings. With a gasp, she noted how familiar the place felt, yet how foreign. Everything was white: the walls of the houses, lying neatly one after another; the asphalt beneath her; even the bus stop sign hovering over her was bright white instead of its usual red. She felt something soft materialise in her hand as she looked around. Glancing down, she noted with another small gasp that it wasn't any material—it was the Invisibility Cloak—Harry's Invisibility Cloak. She couldn't fathom how it could have appeared in her hand, but she couldn't ponder over it as a noise distracted her.

She heard a not-quite-unfamiliar cough behind her. Hermione turned around to face Draco Malfoy—the person she least expected to see anywhere at all. She gaped, not knowing where to place the sudden appearance of her former schoolmate and arch nemesis.

"Nice neighbourhood we have here. Better than most I've seen," Malfoy said without a hint of confusion. "Nothing less expected of you, Granger."

"I'm not-" 'Granger,' Hermione was going to say, Ron flashing in her mind, but she retracted her words. The divorce papers had already been filed, if only for a couple of weeks. "Anyway, what are you doing here? Well, wherever we are. I thought you were-"

"Dead?" Malfoy cut her off. "That, I was. Am. This kind of thing doesn't really change over time, not in most cases."

"I see," Hermione said, at a sudden loss for words. Trying to rationalise her situation, she went over the details once again. She was here, in a place that looked suspiciously familiar—she did not dare admit, even to herself, that she knew exactly where this place was—and Draco Malfoy, a man who allegedly died five years prior, was towering over her sitting frame, making casual remarks about _this_ neighbourhood. There were two possible explanations that came up, and Hermione, hoping against hope it wasn't the latter, prodded. "Are you really?"

"I know you have a certain dislike for tabloids," Malfoy replied, his expressions sour, "but if there's news that's not only big but also true, they won't lie to your face about it." Which left only one option. "Also, nice cloak you've got there."

Hermione ignored the last sentence. They would talk about that later.

"In which case, am I…?" Hermione looked up, locking her chocolate brown eyes with the man's misty grey ones.

"Seems so." Malfoy nodded. "As to why in Merlin's beard they sent me to retrieve you, I have no clue, but I guess they must have some weird sense of humour up there," he continued. Hermione did not dare ask who 'they' were and what it meant that 'they' sent Malfoy to 'retrieve' her. "Either way, welcome to the afterlife, Granger."

"But…" Hermione stopped in her tracks. "First of all, how? I can't remember dying. Or anything even remotely close, not from the past fifteen years of my life."

"Some have that." Malfoy nodded. "You might be better off not knowing. It was quite painful."

"How do you know?" Hermione furrowed her eyebrows, her fingers tightening on the soft material. _And how did this get here?_

"They make you watch it when they send you off to collect someone," Malfoy said, his face suddenly solemn. "I did that when my… when my mother died."

"Huh." Hermione, again was at a loss for words. She was stunned. She had too many questions in her head to make sense of them, and they kept on coming, barraging her already overloaded mind. She tried to pick one out anyway. "Can I at least know who did it?"

"The perpetrator is unimportant; he was going to Azkaban regardless." Malfoy waved a hand. "But that," he pointed at the cloak Hermione was clutching, "and some throwaway papers you signed a couple of weeks ago are more important."

"Throwaway papers?" Hermione thought for a moment. "Did you mean the divorce papers? How is that throwaway?" she raised her voice. "And why are you being so roundabout?"

Malfoy shrugged. Hermione took that as an answer to her second question, rightfully so. "Everyone knew it was coming. You knew it, Weasley knew it, Potter knew it. Everyone you ever held dear had an inkling, if nothing else."

Hermione narrowed her eyes, refusing to break eye contact even as her mood turned sour, as if she'd swallowed a particularly unpleasant piece of lemon. It wasn't a lie; she did see it coming, but it still hurt to think about it. She had not wanted it to end the way it did, but not much she could do about anymore. Then, a thought occurred to her.

"Wait, so my divorce had something to do with this," she pointed at herself as she internally winced at the word 'divorce.' It somehow sounded foreign now. She did not continue, gazing into Malfoy's eyes with an unhidden expectation.

He sighed. "Let me show you something." He waved his wand in some complex manner—she'd definitely learn it later, it occurred to Hermione—and a Pensieve appeared between the two. Malfoy motioned for Hermione to take a look, and she did so, lowering her head into the dark abyss of the marble artefact.

* * *

She was in a dark alleyway, what she thought must have been Knockturn Alley. A man was standing at the corner of a dodgy shop, trying his damnedest to not look around. From under the hood he wore, a couple strands of fiery red hair were dangling out, a not so subtle clue to his identity.

"Ron?" Hermione furrowed her eyebrows. "What would he be doing in Knockturn Alley?"

She didn't get an answer straight away, as another man popped up next to Ron, his identity much better concealed—Hermione could not make out the person under the cloak.

"I see you're on time," the man said. His voice was strange, Hermione thought, as though it had been magically distorted. Maybe it was. She just wasn't sure why Ron, of all people, would be there. He wasn't an idiot—he could recognise dangerous situations, and this was clearly one.

"Where is it?" the man inquired. Ron, not uttering a word, held out a hand he'd been concealing behind his back. He was clutching some sort of silvery material—the Invisibility Cloak?

She vaguely remembered Harry telling her about how Ron had asked him to borrow it. That happened roughly a week ago, so she supposed this must have happened sometime after.

The other man snatched the Cloak, his voice eager this time. "I appreciate your effort. I can guarantee, it will be used accordingly." He turned to leave, but Ron spoke up.

"Don't hurt her!" the redhead exclaimed, his hand forming a stop sign, his voice desperate. The man tilted his cloak—presumably with his head—then shook it.

"Oh, we're not hurting her." He waved his hand in dismissal. He turned to leave again, but this time, he waved his wand hand quickly, a bright red jet of light hitting Ron square on the chest. The man crumpled to the ground, unconscious. The man Apparated away with a pop, leaving Hermione stunned similarly to how he had stunned her ex-husband.

* * *

Hermione lifted her head, her eyes again meeting with Malfoy's. She didn't ask anything; instead, she tried piecing the puzzle together herself.

Ron had given the Invisibility Cloak to that man—the Cloak he had borrowed from Harry not long before. She had the Invisibility Cloak now, and, well, she was apparently in the afterlife now, sitting on the pavement of what she assumed was the white-washed version of her childhood home. The two must have been connected.

Did Ron arrange her death? No, that's ridiculous. Yes, they weren't exactly the best buddies—the divorce had hurt them both—but she couldn't imagine her Ron doing something that cruel to her. Even if he was angry at her, which was perfectly reasonable. And he did tell the man not to hurt 'her.' She hoped against hope Ron had meant herself.

"So, this has to do with whatever happened to me," she said after her moment of silence. Malfoy nodded. "Did Ron do this because of the divorce?" Malfoy nodded again, though he furrowed his eyebrows in doing so.

"I'm not Weasley, and I can't see into people's thoughts, but I suppose so," he added. He made another complicated movement with his wand, then pointed to the Pensieve. "This happened three days after the Daily Prophet picked up on the news."

Hermione did not hesitate to lower her head into the bowl again.

* * *

She was in a pub now, and quite a run-down one at that. She noticed her redhead ex-husband sitting at a table in one of the darkest corners, a half-drunk pint of ale in front of him. His head lulled to the side slightly, and from what she could tell, he had probably drank substantially more than just that half a pint.

Across him sat another man. Hermione couldn't tell who he was, but she had an irritating suspicion it was the man she had seen in the previous memory. She inched closer, trying to remain sneaky as though she'd forgotten about the fact that she couldn't be seen or heard when in a Pensieve, no matter what she did.

"You're angry at her," the man noted, sipping his beer as he glanced at Ron.

"And? What's that to you?" Ron hissed, taking a large gulp of his own, slamming the glass down with more force required.

"Nothing, nothing," the man continued with an even voice. "But I do have a deal that might be interesting to you."

"A deal," Ron repeated, sniffing as though he had smelled something rotten.

"Yes, a deal," the man said. "Now, what I need from you is not much at all." He paused to gauge Ron's reaction. The redhead looked sick, though more from the alcohol than the proposition. "I'd like you to borrow Harry Potter's Invisibility Cloak for me. You'll get it back by the end of the week, don't worry."

"Why would I do that for you?" Ron barked.

"Well, yes, I could have gone to Harry himself straight away, but you need my help more, so I felt this would be a fair exchange," the man explained. "Now, I know you're in the desperate need of positive media coverage. They really did make you the perpetrator in this dirty business, didn't they? 'It's your wife; it's the greatest good you'll ever have,' they say. 'If she left you, you must not have been good enough,' they say."

Ron nodded, draining the last of his pint and signalling to the bartender to bring him another round.

"I can help with that," the man continued. "Give you a bit of credit. You may say you don't care, but we both know you do. I could help make that happen." The man was persuasive, Hermione had to admit, yet she felt a stinging pain in her chest at the thought that Ron would accept it, just like that.

"And I have to lend you the Invisibility Cloak, that's it?" Ron asked.

"That's it." The man nodded. "Deal?"

Ron hesitated, but before long, he nodded, his eyes much too cloudy for Hermione's liking. "Deal."

* * *

Hermione was back on the pavement again, the whiteness suddenly making her sick in the stomach.

"He was tricked," she muttered, yet there was anger bubbling in her chest, tainting her cheeks pink. "He was tricked!" she repeated forcefully.

"Maybe." Malfoy shrugged. It infuriated Hermione that the blond across her was so ambivalent. Had he no compassion at all?

"It wasn't him. It wasn't Ron," she whispered, shaking her head.

"Maybe it wasn't him that did the thing," Malfoy pointed out, "but he did play a part."

"Why did you show this to me?" Hermione's eyes were sparkling with anger. "So that you can laugh at my expense, at how I was killed because I had a messed up marriage?"

"You asked for it," Malfoy said. "But if it helps, Weasley isn't feeling any better. He knows what happened." The blond waved again. This time, a moving picture appeared on one of the windows of Hermione's childhood house. Ron was sitting on the sofa of their once-shared home, his head buried in his hands. Hermione could barely make out the teardrops that fell to the floor every once in a while. He was alone, Hermione noted, and a picture of the two of them were propped on the sofa next to the redhead.

"When's this?" she asked, pointing at the window.

"Right now," Malfoy answered. "He was even worse the day after the news got out. He came very close to taking his own life."

Suicide? Hermione was frightened. She never deliberately thought of it, but the image of Ron, lying in his own pool of blood, stuck in her mind. Then, something else occurred to her.

"Why did _you_ do it?" Hermione blurted out the question she'd been implicitly wondering about for the whole conversation.

"What? Down that bottle of poison and sit back on the sofa before peacefully passing away?" Malfoy almost spat, as though he had regretted the decision. "I had my reasons."

"Reasons," Hermione reiterated. "Everything happens for a reason. But for what reason would you do that to yourself? We're both here, and we're not going anywhere; you might as well share some of whatever angst you have left. At least we can be miserable together," she continued, scraping at the Invisibility Cloak with disdain, stubbornly sticking her gaze on the ground. She was nauseous, irritated, infuriated and sad. Why did this happen to her? Why was it always _her_?

Malfoy sighed. "If it makes you any happier. No Rita Skeeters in the afterlife—not yet." He took a deep breath. "You know about Astoria Greengrass?"

"Your wife? Yes, it had some media coverage. I'd expected something more fancy, to be honest," Hermione replied.

"Yeah, yeah, that doesn't matter." Draco waved a hand. "It was alright, our marriage. Could have been worse. But I just couldn't take it."

"That's it?" Hermione raised an eyebrow.

"Well, yes, but actually, no," Malfoy admitted. "She changed. I'm not sure why. I assume it's because of her sister's success in life," Hermione briefly thought of Daphne, who was a high-ranking Ministry official, in line to become a Minister one day, "but I could be wrong. I think her grandmother passed away around that time as well. Anyway, at one point in her life, she snapped. She became arrogant, insufferable. 'I'm your wife; I'm the greatest good you'll ever have;' she would reiterate this every single day. She would feign sickness so I would stay at home an pamper her. She would make me miss work and beg me to stay with her, to give her attention all the time. I think she just wanted to be appreciated, but it was a desperate attempt."

"Then, she left. I don't know where. She never came back, and she's never been found. The tabloids weren't interested either, apparently. To me, that's what did it," Malfoy said, sighing again. "I was at a loss. I had no job because I quit to tend to Astoria; my parents weren't there, my friends weren't there—they never were, but I'd only realised that then. I was alone. I had never been alone, not even after the war when my whole family was treated as the scum of the earth. And I thought I had messed it all up. There was nowhere for me to go."

"So you ended it for yourself," Hermione added. "That's not very Malfoy of you. I thought your kind always got what they wanted."

"We do." Malfoy nodded. Then, his eyes freezing, he looked to the side. "Some things don't change. You're a believer in second chances, Granger, but I'm not. I've always been a coward, so that's what I would be. My life had gone to shit, so that's how it was going to end. I was not going to ask for redemption. I didn't want to. I was better off dead."

"Don't you ever regret it?" Hermione asked, stunned as though she'd been hit by a stunning spell.

"How it ended? No," Malfoy said. "My life? Maybe."

The two of them descended into silence. Hermione pondered over what she'd learned in the past few minutes, not just about Malfoy, but Ron, Harry, her whole life and death. She felt a single tear trickle down her cheek as she started heaving, her chest contracting.

Unlike Malfoy, she did not want it to end. She had barely begun her work as Minister of Magic. There was so much left for her to do. She wanted to have children, she wanted to travel the world, to learn more about magic… But there wasn't more to it. She ended up in a conspiracy, and it hurt her like nothing else that one of her best childhood friends had a hand in it.

As she continued to weep, a white double-decker pulled into the bus stop next to her. The doors opened, waiting for her to climb in. She looked up. Malfoy was standing there, holding out a hand.

"Come on." He motioned towards the bus. "We've got to go. You can mourn later."

Hermione stood mechanically, taking the hand offered to her as numbness spread throughout her body.

 _There was nothing more to it_ , the thought rang as the doors closed behind her and the bus sped away from her home.


	6. False Safety

**A/N: I've been playing around with this idea ever since the round came out, but I was just too lazy to write it. So, judge for yourselves.**

 **I also took some time to look up dates and times, so yeah. Historical accuracy! Also see A/N after for some explanations.**

 **This story is unbeta'd because I'm lazy and left everything to the last minute, but yeah. Enjoy?**

 **IWSC Round 7** – Theme: Modern Era (1880-1945), School: Mahoutokoro, Year: 1, Main Prompt: (object) artefact from your era (I chose a gas mask—although it was first used in WW1, I feel like it's an object that really defines both World Wars and the 20th century fear of chemicals and nuclear attacks), Additional Prompts: (setting) any known magical school (Mahoutokoro, in this case), (colour) burgundy

 **Word count:** 1511

* * *

Haruhi, sitting on a bench in the gardens of Mahoutokoro, held a gas mask—a curious Muggle object, yet so painful to even look at—in her hands. It was a burgundy colour; Haruhi thought it almost resembled blood, though it was a little darker, a little bit more purple. Almost, but not quite the same as blood.

It was quite laughable, she thought, because it didn't have any bloodshed. All those hundreds of thousands that died, they didn't bleed; they didn't fight in the country, and they weren't on the front lines of Manchuria. They were ordinary residents of the Japanese Empire, going about their business, just to see it all end right in front of their eyes on a sunny August morning. Some of them must still have been sleeping, then. Some were going on about their everyday business. Some were lazing about. And then it all came crashing down—one big boom, shaking the country to its cores for the second time in four days, and that was it. A big hole left where people and buildings had stood just moments prior.

But, Haruhi thought as a teardrop fell onto the burgundy gas mask, this wasn't just about her pride as a Japanese person. Yes, she loved her country, and she was not afraid of saying it, and it really wasn't about having lost some _Mahounai_ war— _Mahounai_ wars happened all the time. Of course, she kept up with _Mahounai_ news, like every proper wizarding family did, but the wizarding community in Japan was not bloodthirsty—they stayed away from the war, both the Mahounai and the wizarding one.

It was about her friend, who came from a _Mahounai_ family in Nagasaki. Her friend, whom she owled back in early August to ask whether they could meet before the second term began in September. This happened on the 6th of August—she remembered the date vividly, because the news of Hiroshima had reached her soon after. She was shocked, but she had thought it was only a one-time thing. It wouldn't happen again, not so soon after, right?

But it did. And the owl she had sent never returned, and Haruhi has not heard of her friend ever since. For some unknown reason, she still hoped her friend, Mari, would turn up to school, although it's been a week since the second term started. Mari would be there, laugh at Haruhi and apologise for being so unruly, but she was on a vacation when it all happened, so the letter never really reached her. There was still that faint hope, because there were no definite news, because they haven't identified Mari as one of the many victims.

She thought about the gas mask. It had become a sign of safety in dangerous times, yet the more she thought about it, the more she realised it was really just that—a mask. A mask to hide behind, to obscure the fear of what was to come next. A temporary relief. She thought about Mari as she had told her about her plans for the holidays just before they packed up and left Mahoutokoro at the end of July. She was carefree, unlike most people. Tears prickled Haruhi's eyes again.

As the tears fell, staining the burgundy gas mask and painting it yet another shade darker, yet another shade further from blood, she felt a hand on her shoulder. Haruhi glanced up, her tear-glazed black eyes meeting a pair of dark brown ones. She recognised the person as Miyuki Saito, the school council representative of her year.

"Are you okay?" Miyuki asked. Her golden robes fell on her shoulders gracefully, glinting in the bright sunlight that heated up the gardens. Haruhi noticed how beautiful a day it really was, with sunshine and birds chirping, trees blossoming despite the time of the year. If only she had the heart to enjoy it.

Haruhi eyed Miyuki for a moment. The two weren't exactly friends; they were on good terms, but outside of school matters, they didn't really talk. Miyuki had always been the kind of witch Haruhi looked up to, with being a top student and a member of the school council and all. She wasn't sure what to make of her concern all of a sudden. She thought maybe it was just a sense of duty, and maybe seeing a classmate in distress, Miyuki had thought it was her duty to make her feel less alone. But whether that was the case or not, Haruhi relented.

"Mari," she said, earning a nod from Miyuki. "She's…"

"Yeah." Miyuki nodded again. "I know who she is. Sits in the middle of the classroom, quiet but surprisingly good at Quidditch. Her favourite lunch is curry. An important figure for the class."

Haruhi looked down to her gas mask, releasing a faint smile as she imagined her friends laughing face whenever she stuffed her face with curry. She really was like that.

"Let's walk," Miyuki said, holding out a hand to help Haruhi up. She took it, shuffling behind Miyuki for some time as they walked out of the gardens and down the slithering roads to the girls' dorms. The hills surrounding the school looked magnificent, so bright and happy, and so in contrast with what Haruhi felt. It looked like Miyuki was waiting for her to talk—she seemed to follow the tradition of keeping out of private matters. If Haruhi wanted to tell her, she would. She liked that quality about Miyuki.

And so, they kept on walking for some time, until Haruhi decided to open up. She argued that it would be much better. Maybe she just needed to tell. Maybe then, it wouldn't feel like all the grief in the world was weighing her down, like the greyness wasn't trying to suffocate her every moment. Maybe this is what she needed to be able to think of her friend without choking on her own tears.

"I… I owled her in August, but I didn't get a reply. And as you know, she's from Nagasaki. Do you think…?" she said, afraid of finishing the sentence, the terrible truth that kept twisting and turning her guts not having sunk in just yet.

"Who knows?" Miyuki said in almost ambiguous fashion, though from her tone, Haruhi could tell she really meant something along the lines of 'I cannot be absolutely sure, but in all likelihood, yes.' It was always like that.

"I see," Haruhi replied. "You know," she continued, much to her own surprise. "I got this gas mask from her. She knew I lived in a fairly remote place with my family, but she said it was just to be safe. You never know what could happen, especially in war. And she said her family had a couple of bonuses of these," she said, holding up the burgundy gas mask, "so I could take one. Better safe than sorry, she used to say."

"Isn't that right?" Miyuki agreed, nodding continuously. "Very responsible of her."

"Yeah," Haruhi continued. "I miss her. It's like, she never thought anything like this could happen to her. I didn't, either. None of us ever do."

"We all think the war could never reach us, because we're not in it, we're not the ones fighting it," Miyuki echoed her thoughts. She stopped in her tracks, turning around to clasp her hands on Haruhi's shoulders, looking her in the eye as they stood, halfway between the gardens and the dorms. "You're not the only one thinking this. All of us lost something. All of us thought if we stayed away, it wouldn't be our problem. But it is, because we still live in this country. And the whole country was affected."

"Did you..?" Haruhi began, suspecting there was more to what Miyuki was telling her. The girl shook her head. It was not that she did not have more to tell, but rather, that she did not want to. Miyuki always had the look of a strong person, somebody who was harder to break than anyone else, but Haruhi supposed she just had another way of dealing with things. And Haruhi respected that. "I see. I guess."

"We're here for you," Miyuki continued. "The whole class. It's been like this ever since we first came here for day school. We stick together in this school, and your loss is everyone's loss. But it's over now. No more war, not now. So, don't feel like you have to endure this alone, okay?"

"Okay," Haruhi replied. Although the grief she had felt previously had not left, she felt somewhat better. She had friends in the class, and although they could not replace Mari, they would be there. She hoped they would be there.

This wasn't just about her loss and Mari. This was about the suffering all of them had gone through in the past couple of years, the strain the war had left on them, magical or _Mahounai_.

"Come on," Miyuki pointed towards the dorms. "Let's eat something. It's lunchtime already."

* * *

 **A/N:** Okay, so Mahounai means 'magicless' in Japanese. As I've said, the gas mask, in my interpretation, is something that signals this very feeble feeling of safety, like everything is going to be alright, but if you think about it, a gas mask is not gonna do a whole lot against a nuclear bomb. And I tried to sort of capture that when Haruhi talks about how cheerful Mari is—like she felt alright, but that was only temporary, of sorts. With the rest, I think it should be clear what's happening.


	7. Shipwrecked

**A/N: This story is mildly inspired by Robinson Crusoe. As you will see, the premise is similar, and some of the symbols are also the same, but I've changed some things. For one, this is gonna be Victorian era because I can't write 18** **th** **century English to save my life (not that I can write Victorian, but I digress). Second, none of that cannibalist savagery bs. Third, there's a cat, not a dog, and the cat is not found on the island. Fourth, ending is tweaked a bit. And fifth, aesthetic of the fic is not as much rooted in rationalism.**

 **In Draco's thoughts, I'm trying to echo Victorian ideas about life, so don't take them for my opinion (e.g. inferiority of animals and perhaps some subtle sexism here and there—I believe in neither, of course, but for the sake of historical accuracy, I do what I must).**

 **IWSC Round 8** – Theme: Survival Muggles – School: Mahoutokoro, Year: 1, Main prompt: (emotion) melancholia, Additional prompts: (symbol) money, (romantic pairing) Draco/Hermione

 **Word count** : 1741

 **Thanks to Socks and Tiggs for betaing and helping me out with the ending of the story! You guys are awesome *hands out virtual cookies***

* * *

It was unbecoming of a Malfoy to be lost at sea, yet for no less than five years, that is exactly what Draco Lucius Malfoy had done. Draco, of course, would never have admitted to making any mistakes, not even the most miniscule, en route to a trading convention in Boston. Malfoys did not make mistakes—and as such, he had concluded that his miraculous albeit frustrating discovery of an uninhabited island was due to the omnipresent uncertainties of crossing the seas.

Miraculous, Draco had thought. He was certain his current premises would not be everlasting. When he returned to his homeland, he would offer this new piece of land to Her Majesty: the newest addition to the ever-growing British Empire. As a token of her gratitude, he could expect a knighthood, if not a lordship—which he was already expectant of, his father being Lord of Wiltshire. Yet, his predicament—five years on an island, unknown to all but him and his ever so loyal cat, Felix—had been, much to his surprise, difficult.

On his first day on the island, Draco had noted that the entirety of his ship's crew had drowned or lost their lives thereafter in the storm that brought them ashore. A heavy feeling of melancholia descended on him, one he could not quite rid himself of—not even five years later.

Yet, despite the terrible disaster that befell him on that fated day, Draco had attempted to live his life as any other man would. For as long as was possible, he lived in his private suite in the shipwreck—coming from an esteemed family of aristocrats, he was no less than an expert at hunting, which had helped him greatly in his daily endeavours. Unfortunately, he was no stonemason, nor an architect, and as such, he postponed the task of building a dwelling for as long as possible.

Of course, that predicament did not last forever—no ship was ever made to be inhabited for years. While Draco had grown fond of the cabin he had dwelled in for so long, he was aware it was high time to utilise the arithmetic skills his countless tutors had forced upon him.

With the help of Felix, Draco had erected what he would not dare call any more than a shack. Yes, it did have all essential assets—a kitchen, his sleeping chamber, a washing room, and a small salon—yet it was with great sorrow that Draco bid farewell to his ship. The ship had been his anchor to the modern world. Leaving his cabin for the last time meant his ties to his homeland had been greatly severed—all he had left to keep him hoping was his book of notes, along with a white feather quill and the remains of his ink, and some shillings he had rescued after that terrible, terrible thunderstorm.

He often thought about those shiny coins that jingled in his pockets when he sat or stood. Before becoming stranded on this strange island, Draco had never spared much thought on money; its existence had always been a given, but for the longest time, it had meant the world to him. His life, his future had depended on those small circular metal coins; money was, to Draco, perhaps even more important than God himself. Perhaps money _was_ God himself.

However, those coins were only that, no more: pieces of metal. They were of no use on this island, as there was no one to trade with, no items to buy, no one to flaunt riches to.

It had been a sobering thought, given how Draco was such a staunch believer of capitalism. Being reminded of how feeble his superiority had been before he had become shipwrecked affected Draco greatly. He fell into a long bout of depression, his life having lost its driving power. He was a Malfoy, and Malfoys had everything they wished for; yet, in his melancholic thoughts, Draco wished for nothing but emotional closure—the one thing money could not buy him.

He had Felix, but Draco was well aware that cats were not men—they could not understand human feelings.

Draco almost longed for the hours-long balls his mother used to organise every so often, even though he had distinctly remembered the staggering boredom he had always felt when attending such events, pretending to like those with whom he would converse. Even though he noted the day's happenings in his book of notes every evening to preserve his sanity, Draco realised what he missed was not talking to someone—it was being talked to. And other than his cat's occasional meowing and the natural sounds of the nearby forest he hunted in, there was no soul in sight to ease his longing for human contact.

The loneliness, along with the existential trauma Draco was forced to face, was what made him depressed. He lived a bountiful life with all the natural beauty the island could offer to him, but he could not enjoy his solitary confinement, precisely because it was solitary—because it removed him from the society he now oh-so longed for.

Draco survived, but with great difficulty.

Until another fated day, one similar to, yet so different from the day he had become shipwrecked. It had begun with an innocuous morning. Draco had awoken, broke his fast, and went hunting. When he returned, however, he noticed something suspicious in the distance—a ship. A real, moving ship, presumably with living occupants. Immediately, Draco decided to draw attention unto himself. He started a fire; the grey-black smoke rose high to the skies as Draco hoped against hope the captain would notice and instruct his crew to anchor on the island.

Much to his relief, the captain must have done exactly that, as the ship docked safely on the island just as the sun had begun to set. Draco waited, though his patience was fast dissipating, for a person to descend from the deck. Soon enough, his wishes were heard, and a person came walking towards him.

Draco noted with no little surprise that the person was a female. Yet, she did not wear female clothes—she was dressed in a proper captain uniform, in trousers with a blue jacket and a similarly blue hat. She had the curliest brown hair Draco had ever seen, the locks falling on her shoulders in a mess, not proper and very unladylike—something Draco was not used to, having grown up in the presence of his mother and her female friends.

He supposed he should have found the sight revolting, as it was not normal. A lady was not supposed to dress in such masculine clothes, and she was not supposed to walk in such a brisk fashion, with such confidence-inspiring steps. For a man like Draco, the encounter should have been an opportunity to assert his superiority, for a woman dressed like that must not have had the social standing of the likes of Draco.

However, he found the woman beautiful, rather than revolting. Her appearance alone was so out of the ordinary that, for a brief moment, Draco forgot his mother's teachings about etiquette and greetings as the woman came to a stand in front of him. Before he could properly introduce himself, however, the woman spoke.

"I never thought I would see Draco Lucius Malfoy alive in my lifetime," the woman said, nodding towards Draco, who was, to say the least, shocked. Not only did this woman recognise him, she also had a blatant disregard for properness, it seemed.

"For the heir of a family of such esteem, I would expect more senseless chit-chat. You surprise me," she continued. "I am Captain Hermione Jean Granger, and it is a great pleasure to meet you." She extended her right arm, as though expecting a handshake. Draco, not quite certain how well she meant, placed his right hand in hers, followed by a surprisingly firm shake. "Now, I am delighted to say my crew and I will graciously allow you on board; however, I must say we are exhausted, as we have been sailing for over a week. Mr. Malfoy, would you mind if we had a night's sleep before we embark again?"

"Not at all," Draco answered with whatever politeness he could muster.

Flabbergasted, he concluded. Flabbergasted was the most accurate word to describe his state of mind. Not only was he taken aback by the tone, he was also frightened, almost outraged, by the lack of subtlety of the woman's—Captain Granger's—speech. More frightening, however, was that he felt a hint of what he recognised as attraction to the bluntness of her words and her disregard for societal norms. His father would be murderous if he found out.

"Thank you." Captain Granger nodded. "Now, my crew would very much like to hear about your adventures over a cup of tea, if you would oblige."

Etiquette dictated that Draco agree, so that is exactly what he did. Over a cup of Earl Grey tea—something Draco had not tasted for five years, and was perhaps a little too excited to taste again—he spoke of the tragedy of his ship and his life as a survivor. His nobility stopped him from indulging in the finer details, especially with respect to his emotional trauma, the melancholy, and his fearful realisation of the arbitrariness of everything material, but he piqued the sailors' intrigue nevertheless.

Draco, though, had eyes only for the captain with the most beautiful brown locks he had ever seen. As he recounted how he had hunted for exotic animals, he eyed Captain Granger, gauging her response, which was no more than a raised eyebrow. When he expressed his wish to return to the art of trade and resume his long-missed life on the British Isles, Draco heard a faint, feminine snort. It seemed as though his plans to impress her had been unsuccessful—something he was not used to.

After a long night's sleep, interrupted only by his nagging plans of seduction, Draco departed the island he had begun to call home, on the ship of an intriguing yet inconceivably attractive captain. When the ship sailed away, Draco was left feeling strangely melancholic, yet restless—he was sorrowful to let his home go, but he knew it was for the better.

And perhaps, if his plans worked, he would charm the lady of the ship.


	8. Counting Stars

**IWSC Round 9** – Theme: Orion - Write about hunters or a group working together to achieve a goal. School: Mahoutokoro, Year: 1, Main prompt: (action) star gazing, Bonus prompts: (weather) meteor shower, (quote) "You do care, you care so much you feel as though you will bleed to death with the pain of it.", Further theme: Write for Y2 (Ninja) on your team: I used Fred & George and the trio, Hurt/Comfort, Friendship, and post-war setting as per requested.

 **Word count** : 1714

 **As usual, thanks for Socks (Socrates577) for betaing! *hands out virtual cookies***

* * *

George lay on the grass on the terrace of the Burrow, his gaze roaming the starry sky. It was a beautiful night, truly, yet the sight could not ease the nagging pain he felt.

He didn't care, though. It wasn't like him to care. He wouldn't. He would let go; it was easy. He just had to be himself, the goofy prankster he had always been. It wasn't a big deal.

Except it was. His eyes found one of the constellations in the dark blue sky. He couldn't name it, but he had a vague memory of his mum teaching him and Fred about it. He remembered it was the constellation of some guy who always hunted for prey with his dogs and was very successful. He wished he had that—somebody to 'hunt with.' But he was alone; he felt alone, like he never had in his life.

A single tear rolled down his cheek. It was funny, because he wasn't the one to cry. Even in his childhood, whenever he cut himself or miscalculated a sneaky spell, he wouldn't cry—he would grin, usually at Fred, and masquerade it around to show everyone what a strong person he was. He didn't feel that strength now. It was as though this strength had been ripped out, like the strength had belonged to the half of him that died along with Fred in the Battle of Hogwarts.

The memory still hurt, and as much as George tried to steer his mind away, to focus on the stars, and on what a mesmerising, clear night it was, he couldn't. The scene was stuck on repeat, and it drove him crazy.

But he couldn't care. He couldn't afford to—he had to act like himself and not let everything that had happened get to him.

"George." The voice startled him. Gone was the scene from his mind, and gone were the thoughts on the stars as he sat up and glanced behind. It was Ron, his bright red hair ruffled in the wind, standing in the doorway. "What's up?"

"Not much, little brother," George replied, a smile plastered on his face. The smile didn't quite reach his eyes, yet it had a therapeutic value regardless. "Up this late?"

"I'm an adult," Ron said, furrowing his eyebrows. "I came here to check on you, because Mum said you've been gone for too long."

"I'm fine," George replied, trying his damnedest to keep his face in check. He wouldn't burden his little brother with his own hurricane of emotions; Ron already had enough on his plate with his sudden media presence and national hero status.

Instead of shrugging and turning on his heels to retreat into the warmth of their family home, though, Ron crouched next to him, following his gaze to look at the sky.

"I don't think you are," he said, leaning on his arms for support. George whipped his head around, widening his eyes at his brother. "I mean, I'm bloody terrible at emotions and stuff, but I know you're sad. Or something."

"I'm not. I'm over it," George insisted. As if to underline his point, he crossed his arms. On second thought, though, he realised that gesture might have made it seem like he was being whiny, so he let his arms down after a few seconds. "It's over."

"You must be some kind of superhuman, then, like in the Muggle movies Harry and Hermione are forcing me to watch," Ron commented. "Because…" he hesitated, "because I'm not. It hurts, y'know. It's been half a year, and it still bloody hurts."

It was unlike Ron to be so blunt about his feelings, George thought. When had he become so perceptive? He remembered, Hermione would often tell Ron he was on the emotional level of a spoon, so what had changed? Had the war done this to his little brother?

"The stars are really beautiful tonight," he said. The pain had not subsided with the appearance of Ron; instead, it had gotten worse. It made George realise just how much the war had changed everyone, Ron included, perhaps even himself included. He didn't want it. He wanted to be the way he was before, to be able to enjoy life, to not be the emotional shipwreck he was at that moment. He wanted it gone, so he changed the topic.

"Yeah." Ron nodded, though his raised eyebrow and twinkling brown irises told a different story. "Do you know any of the constellations? I've forgotten all of them." He then added, "Actually, I never really learned them. I just copied my Astronomy homework from Hermione."

George smirked at him, feeling the healing power of the smile straight away.

"There's one I can see," he said, pointing at the constellation he had noticed beforehand. "I can't remember what the name was, but it's about this hunter guy and his dogs that always explore the forest together. Mum showed Fred and I this constellation like, back in second year, I think?"

"Badass." Ron nodded. "She never did that with me." He pouted, watching the stars as they shone in their natural beauty.

They stayed like that for what seemed like an eternity. George, despite trying to convince himself that he was better off alone to cope, felt glad that he had Ron beside him. He felt less lonely, though the pain was still there; the pain was never gone. The pain was a constant, rippling ache, constant like the stars he watched now so intently.

"You don't have to deal with this alone, y'know," Ron said as his hands slid through his bright red locks. "Angelina is worried about you. So is Alicia. And Mum, of course. But it's not just them, really. Harry told me yesterday that he thought you really needed some cheering up, but he wasn't really sure how to do it, and Hermione agreed with him too."

"But I don't care," George pressed, reverting back to how he had felt not an hour ago. He didn't want others to have to feel the same pain he did. If he went along, he would hurt them. Sticking along with people always brought that: more pain, more hurt, and regret. He didn't want to lose anyone else anymore. "I'm over it. I can deal with it myself, okay? I'm fine," he echoed.

"You do care; you care so much you feel as though you will bleed to death with the pain of it," Ron retorted, clasping his hand on George's shoulder to stress his words. Then, he let out a lopsided smile. "Hermione sometimes tells me that, and I think it's pretty fitting for you. But really, I know what I feel, and I guess it must be worse for you. It's painful for me, and he wasn't my twin, so it must have hit you pretty hard. And, y'know, if it really hurt you that bad, then I wouldn't want you to have to go through this whole thing alone."

George slumped, tears pricking his eyes again. He wanted to seem strong, but he couldn't. He didn't have the energy anymore. He had tried, but he was tired, and it was just too much.

"You're right," he croaked, his tears staining the white shirt he wore. It was a difficult realisation to be had, but he couldn't take it anymore. He needed somebody to help let go of his pain. "It hurts. It hurts so much, sometimes I can't even sleep, and I stay up all night, watching the stars outside or something. They sometimes remind me of him," he said, avoiding the name as though it would curse his confession. "I see the stars and I think, he must be up there, among them. He must be happy to see we've won the war. And sometimes, I wonder if he's having fun there. I mean, there are lots of people there with him, but I'm not there to prank people with him. Or, he's not here to make pranks with me. It's all the same, really."

"And then, sometimes I have these flashbacks from the Battle, and I can't stop them. I try not to think of it, but they always come back, the flashbacks. And then, they're stuck, like I was watching some weird Muggle movie on repeat, but it looks much more real. Like, I'm back in Hogwarts, fighting in the corridors, and I can see the curse hit Fred, and it's just… It's just too much."

Ron narrowed his eyes, scratching his face in thought. "I think Hermione told me about this 'mental disorder' she called PTSD. I think you might have it. She also said the best way to cure it was to be surrounded by people you love."

"Maybe," George replied.

"Anyway, I'm not very good at this, but," Ron hesitated, "but if you want to talk to somebody, I'll be here. I mean, I'm not gonna say the right things or anything, but I can listen to you. I'm family, after all, and Fred was my brother too. We can get through this together."

"I know," George said. "Thank you."

And as he said that, the tears began to fall. He stopped controlling it. He felt Ron's hand on his shoulder again, trying to soothe him as best as he could, though the tears just kept coming and coming and coming, no matter the words Ron spoke.

"Hey," Ron said, and George lifted his head to look at him. "Look." He pointed at the sky.

Shooting stars were crossing the sky. Not one, not two, but many. It looked so beautiful.

"A meteor shower," George mouthed, and Ron nodded. He watched as they lit up the sky, his mouth shaping an 'O' as he marvelled at the sight.

"Do you think it means something?" Ron asked. "Maybe they're watching us, too, from above."

"Yeah, maybe," George said. They stayed like that, until the meteors were gone.

"Let's go back," Ron suggested, pointing at the door behind. "Harry and Hermione are waiting for me because they want to show me another Muggle movie. D'you wanna join?"

"I guess," George replied. And for the first time in the past six months, he felt like it was going to be alright.


	9. Dragon Hide

**IWSC Round 10** – School: Mahoutokoro, Year: 1, Theme: Seeker, Main Prompt: (character) Charlie Weasley, Additional Prompts: (action) falling, (spell) Impedimenta

 **Word count** : 2085

* * *

 _His head was spinning. He felt light-weight, as though gravity had disappeared from around him. Floating. He was floating in the middle of nothing, a bright light coming from one side, something dark rearing its mouth beneath him, but he couldn't quite tell what it was. Yet,he could somehow sense the darkness stored no good, that he shouldn't seek it. The bright light was more inviting._

 _But he couldn't move. He felt strained, like invisible ropes were keeping every one of his muscles in place. He struggled, but the ropes didn't let him. Something was keeping him from reaching that bright light, the one he wished to reach so badly. He reached, opening and closing his palms with more and more force, but every time he inched closer, he was pulled back by the ropes—as though somebody was constantly jinxing him. One step forward, two steps back._

 _And then, he was falling. Further and further away from the bright light, the abyss beneath clawed at him, pulling him in with the force of a black hole. No coming back. Only darkness. As he fell, he let out a scream, hoping for someone, anyone to help._

* * *

Charlie woke with a start. He was sweating; his blanket was wet all over, and his well-built arms and abdomen glinted in the early morning sunshine. He climbed out of bed as he willed his breathing to return to normal, casting a quick Tempus with his wand he had picked up from the bedside table as he dragged his feet to the wardrobe.

 _5.30 AM_ , the golden letters said before they disappeared. That early, huh.

As he looked for a clean towel and a shirt to put on, Charlie pondered over his nightmare. They had been pestering him ever since the Battle, and he was not sure what to make of it. He did not return to Romania after the Battle; he stayed to mourn with his family and to help restore whatever's been lost in the War.

That wasn't all, though. He didn't feel like returning. All his life, he'd been enthusiastic about creatures, especially dragons, and they had become his life, his career, his everything. He never knew anything else that would have interested him more.

But now, he doubted himself. Every morning, he would wake from this strange nightmare with that bright light and the ominous darkness that kept him at bay, more and more confused as the days went by, and less and less inclined to do something about his sudden lack of enthusiasm for everything he had worked for all his life. He didn't know if he had been doing what he wanted to do, or if there was another way for him still—if he could become something else.

He wondered if it would be possible to make a career out of Quidditch, now. He was twenty-six—not young, but certainly not too old to eventually rise to the top. After all, when he had graduated from Hogwarts, many people had been predicting he would become a famous Seeker for sure.

Pondering this, Charlie trudged down the stairs and out on the back door, heading towards the shed. In less than a minute, he was holding his old Cleansweep in hand, carefully balancing it on his palm. Memories came back, about the good old days in Hogwarts, the continuous victories against Slytherin, and just how much fun he had had, the exhilaration of reaching for the Snitch, and the ecstasy of winning the Cup for his house—all by himself.

Yet, even as nostalgia engulfed him, Charlie did not at all feel inclined to actually climb on his broom and take to the skies. He felt like sitting down outside the shed, looking at the vast, green fields that lay ahead, and nothing more. He didn't _want_ to fly. So, he put the broom back, slipped out on the creak of the shed, and decided to take a walk. He had always been able to think better when outside; the fresh air seemed to do something magical to his mind.

So, he walked. He walked, and walked, and walked. He didn't take note of how far he had gone from the Burrow; he went on. He just wanted to think, to find something he could do, something he could enjoy, because the world seemed to have toppled over. The blues turned into reds, night to midday, and vibrant emotions into dull, everyday grey.

It must have been an eternity later, when Charlie found himself in a small clearing with a little lake, some tall trees and the wind that rustled the leaves and the grass. In the distance, he could still spot his family home, but it was far enough that he estimated to have walked hours, at least. He vaguely remembered the place from his early childhood, but he couldn't quite place how and why. Nevertheless, he sat down and glanced at his reflection in the lake's smooth surface.

What could he become, if not a dragon trainer? An adventure journalist? He loved travelling, and he had a knack for writing, but at the moment, he wanted nothing more than to stay. A professor, perhaps? He was good at a lot of different subjects, and most prominently Care of Magical Creatures, but he was no teacher. On several occasions, he had been allocated to induct the new trainers of the Reservatory, and most of those occasions ended in small-scale disasters.

He really had no idea. It was peaceful out here, but Charlie was troubled. He had no aim, no direction. He had no one to help him; his family couldn't decide for him what to do—it was his decision, and his decision only.

What could he do with his life, now that the war has ended?

* * *

 _The ropes were still there, holding him steady, but there was some wiggling space now. Charlie still feared the dark abyss that had consumed him night after night, but he was making progress. He could reach out now, kick with his legs, trash against the ropes._

 _Every time he moved forward, he felt the ropes restrain him for a few moments. Like a continuous Impedimenta jinx, he stilled and the ropes pulled him back, until he regained control of his limbs and tried crawling towards the light again._

 _He was still floating in nothingness. It was still strange, but not entirely unfamiliar. He had gotten used to it, and grew more and more welcoming of the scene._

 _Before long, though, the darkness would envelope him again, and he would fall, fall into that dark abyss with no end._

* * *

His stomach lurched as Charlie fell out of his bed. He was sweaty again, though perhaps less so than before. He wondered why that was.

This dream of his was a strange one. He wondered what might have changed the setting. Could it have been the little clearing?

He had been visiting the clearing every day for the past couple of days. He could not figure out where he remembered the place from, but his feeling of familiarity grew stronger by the day. He was determined to find out, and, based on this dream of his, his intuition told him it might be the key to his problem. It might help him figure out what to do, where to continue.

Charlie went through his usual routine—he dressed, brushed his teeth, wiped the sweat away and cleaned his bed—before heading to the clearing to ponder. He preferred to walk; it gave him a sense of continuity, something he felt he needed to fight for. He could have apparated, but that was the easy way, and that wasn't _his_ way of going about things.

When he reached the clearing, he sat down next to the lake again, looking into his reflection. It had changed. The bags under his eyes were less visible, though still there. His face seemed less pale, and the contrast between his freckled cheeks and fiery hair was less stark. He looked happier, for some reason.

He leaned back on his arms, watching the clouds float by, just like he always did in his dreams. Except, these clouds would not fall, and the ground beneath was not a mysterious dark abyss. The clouds would float, and they would eventually reach that bright light. Charlie wished he could be like those clouds.

He thought of dragons, then. They could also fly, and they would not fall, just like that. They would only ever fall if they had been killed in a battle, or something. They would land with all the grace they had, and take to the skies again as they wished. The thought surprised Charlie. He had not thought about dragons for a long time, and before now, he could not find the enthusiasm he once had. It was as though the thought had sparked something, something old and familiar in him.

Charlie, for the first time in what must have been months, felt hopeful.

* * *

 _He was not falling anymore. In his dreams, he would will the ropes to let him go, and the impediments came less and less often as he inched closer and closer to the bright light. The dark abyss below him was not frightening anymore; it could not hurt him, because he was not falling anymore. It could not reach out and grab him, because he was too far away, close enough that the bright light protected him._

 _He felt stronger, more determined. He would reach that bright light, no matter what._

 _Yet, every time he was about to get there, the dream ended._

* * *

Charlie woke up with a start, as usual, but this time, he didn't feel all that sweat from before. He was more or less fine, and upon casting a quick Tempus, he noted that he had slept longer than before.

He fell back on his pillow, looking at the ceiling and thinking about nothing in particular before climbing out of bed. He felt better about himself. He now knew he was on the path that would lead him to his future, to his true purpose in life.

He knew what he had to do. Go back to the clearing, think about this past memory he seemed to have lost, and regain it. Charlie was sure it would give him the answer he had sought for so long.

* * *

He walked around the lake, taking in his surroundings. The leaves rustled in the mild autumn wind, the lake gleamed in the morning sun, and the grass was a vibrant green from the recent rains. It looked like paradise, and it was all so familiar.

Charlie glanced at the sky again, at the clouds. Dragons, he thought. Could it be dragons still?

He lay down and closed his eyes. A Hungarian Horntail swooshed behind his eyelids, followed by a Ukrainian Ironbelly, and all sorts of different dragon species. Charlie recognised all of them, and quietly recited the main attributes of each species he saw. It felt like coming home.

As the last Chinese Fireball danced away, the realisation dawned on him. He knew what this place was. This was the place where he had first seen a real-life dragon.

He had been three-four years old, and his family had been having a picnic, when the sky had become overcast. He remembered glancing up, and seeing a majestic dragon fly overhead. Of course, Mum and Dad were terrified and hurried back to the Burrow with him, Bill and baby Percy, lest the dragon burn them to crisp, but in Charlie, it left a feeling of awe. He had decided then that he would train dragons when he grew up.

How could he had forgotten? And how could he had been so doubtful? Dragons were his life. It was all he knew, so it made sense that he would work with them. Dragons were his passion. He had given up his family home and moved thousands of miles away to fulfil his dream.

He wouldn't have to look for anything else. He knew where home was, and it was where his favourite creatures lived.

* * *

 _He finally did it. He broke the ropes and reached the bright light he had been longing for. He knew what it was, and as he looked back, the dark abyss seemed to disappear. He would not fall again; there would be nowhere to fall._

 _And Charlie slept peacefully thereafter._


	10. Morning Sun

**A/N: Thank you Tiggs for betaing, and for the entire team for sticking it out 'till the very end. You guys are all awesome, and I hope to see you all in Mahoutokoro next season ;)**

 **International Wizarding School Championship:** Finals – School: Mahoutokoro, Year: 1, Theme: Pygmy Puff (write about something uncharacteristic), Special Rule: include the animal, Main Prompt: (colour) purple, Additional Prompts: (setting) Diagon Alley, (emotion) confusion

Our link is quite complex; the main idea is that the event is the grand re-opening of Weasley's Wizard Wheezes. George is handing out Pygmy Puffs to every arrival, every guest has to wear something purple, and we are all writing about confrontations between characters for our theme. The weather is rainy, but towards the end of the party, a rainbow appears out of the rain. We also have stories that all start with the letter 'M' (in memory of Mahoutokoro), and we all have the same cover picture.

 **Word count:** 2280

* * *

The morning had not gone as Hermione had imagined. Her hair, which she had managed to tame somewhat over the past years, started acting out again. Her landlord had Floo'd her that morning because some dunderhead neighbour had broken the water pipes. But even worse, she had had an argument with the host of the party she was now sulking at: George Weasley.

To be fair, she perhaps should not have reacted quite as harshly as she had, but, well, she _was_ right. The purple clothing she could understand, and she did her best to fulfil the criteria: she wore a lavender blouse, magenta jeans, and to top it off, a deep purple robe. The Pygmy Puffs, though, were a big no. First of all, they were annoying, and Hermione's ears hurt from the constant squeaking. Second of all, it was all just a clever marketing trick on George's part to sell even more of those damned creatures, and Hermione wanted no part in his schemes. But most importantly, they were illegal to breed, and as an esteemed employee of the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures—something she liked to remind people of—she could not let such fraudulent activities take place.

No matter how she argued, though, George would not budge. He was adamant about giving away free Pygmy Puffs to every arrival, and that had been grating on Hermione's nerves for the entire morning. Even her own, little, squealing fluffball that now sported red streaks in its fur helped nothing. It just made her scowl that much deeper.

Having arrived with Harry and Ron in tow, she had been at first excited about the shop opening. The three of them went around, greeting hundreds and hundreds of customers, ranging from close friends to complete strangers who really just wanted an autograph from the Golden Trio. There was nothing wrong with that; Hermione had gotten used to the fame her name accompanied. But soon after, Ron had left to search for some food as he chatted with Dean and Seamus, and Harry had decided to talk with Ginny, leaving Hermione alone. Everyone seemed preoccupied with making up with former enemies when she looked around, so she decided to take a breather, sat down on a bench just outside the shop, and gazed at the sky. It was cloudy, but not incredibly so; the weather was quite enjoyable for London in late spring.

She thought it was a nice idea to celebrate something for a change. In the past two years, she had been trying to deal with her own demons with more or less success, but she still felt something was missing to leave the past behind. She had tried to be as active in her personal and professional life as possible to distract from the nightmares and the flashbacks. She had helped rebuild Hogwarts, finished her education with flying colours on her NEWTs, pushed for her SPEW project in the Ministry, and campaigned for a mental health programme for war veterans in St Mungo's, but it was all just a facade of sorts. As much as she hated to admit it, she wasn't fine herself, nor could she truly pretend to be.

But perhaps, she thought, this party would help her.

* * *

Parvati sensed an incoming headache as she jogged down Diagon Alley with Padma. She had intended to help out in Skirvish's Savings for the day to get herself some spending money, but when she had received the invitation for the grand reopening of Weasley's Wizard Wheezes, she decided to give it a go.

She had been aimless ever since the war had ended. Lavender and her used to have this dream, to open a robe shop where they would offer prophecies with every purchase, but Lavender was gone, and with it went their dream. Since then, she had not been able to find what she really wanted to do with her life; she still lived with her parents, and took to some temporary jobs, not willing to commit to anything. The bond between Padma and her had also weakened, and this upcoming party did not seem to help the mood.

"Are you sure you don't want one? You're going to be the only person not wearing purple today," Parvati asked her twin as the two kept jogging.

She had a box full of purple rosettes she and Lavender had made during the war, for former DA members to wear. It had meant to be a sign of hope, and Parvati thought it would be a nice gesture in her best friend's memory to distribute them now. Perhaps they could make it a day of celebration and remembrance.

"I'm good," Padma replied, barely sparing a glance at the box. Parvati sighed; her sister was always in a sour mood, and her job was not helping. If only Parvati could do something to cheer her up…

"Are you alright? It's not like you to not want to fit in…" she noted, an intense gaze on Padma.

"I'm fine."

She left it at that, seeing how Padma would not answer.

They paced down Diagon Alley in quiet for some time, when they reached Weasley's Wizard Wheezes, right across from where Padma worked. Looking around, Parvati spotted the host of the day, George Weasley, who held a wicker basket.

"Aww, Pygmy Puffs!" she shrieked as she noticed the small fluff balls peering out of George's basket. "Lavender would've liked them."

"Yeah," Padma replied.

Parvati noted how she wasn't in a chatty mood. She recalled how Padma had called the gathering 'utterly untasteful' a couple of days prior, citing how the war was not something to celebrate. Parvati understood that, although she didn't quite agree, and she wasn't in the mood to get in yet another argument over the sentiment.

She was about to bid goodbye to her twin when she noticed Hermione Granger sitting on a bench, just outside the shop. It occurred to her that they had not talked ever since the Battle, and a feeling of guilt descended on her in an instant. There were some things she should have said a long time ago, and yet some other things she wanted to discuss.

 _There won't be a better opportunity for that_ , she thought, the decision to corner the brunette already having formed.

"Look, there's Hermione," she said, pointing at the witch on the bench. "I might say hello. Don't forget to join the party after lunch if you can get off, alright?" And with that, she waved to Padma and trotted over to the bench.

She could still feel her twin's eyes boring into her back, a mixture of disappointment and quietly bubbling anger in her gaze, but she tucked the feeling away. She had an important discussion ahead of her.

* * *

"Hermione."

Said witch was startled out of her quiet meditation when she heard her name spoken in a soft, familiar voice. She looked up and came face to face with someone she had not expected to talk to ever again: her ex-dormmate Parvati Patil.

"Parvati?" she asked, her chocolate brown eyes widening. "How come you're here?"

"I was invited, and I thought it would be nice to come," Parvati replied, fidgeting with the large box she was holding. "Also, I wanted to talk to you."

Hermione furrowed her eyebrows in confusion. Why would Parvati want to talk? It wasn't like her to want to have a civil conversation with the likes of Hermione. They were polar opposites on a spectrum of personalities.

"I'm confused," she stated, noting how the annoying little Puff on her lap turned a strange shade of grass green. She'd read somewhere that green signified such emotions. Could those creatures mirror her feelings or something?

"It's just…" Parvati looked to the side, biting her lips. "Actually, can I sit? This box is heavy."

Hermione gestured at the space next to her, inviting her former housemate to sit.

"I'm sorry," Parvati said as soon as she had settled down. "For how we—I mean, Lavender and I—treated you in school. I know, I can't erase it, but, well… I've seen the things you've done since the war, and then I look at myself, and I think… I think it's amazing. I'm not sure where and why things have gone wrong, but I know I wouldn't be able to do the same."

Hermione felt conflicted. It was unlike Parvati to talk about her feelings so openly, especially with her, of all people. She felt grateful that somebody recognised the things she had done, but at the same time, she couldn't take the compliment at face value. After all, she had not dealt with her own inner problems; how could she solve anyone else's?

"Thank you," she muttered after some time, absently stroking the Pygmy Puff that was now a lovely shade of turquoise. "I don't deserve it, though. I… I do things because I think they might help others, but it's not like I could do it without the help of others, and without the friendship of Harry and Ron."

"You do," Parvati insisted. "I mean… Everyone has their own troubles, and most people wouldn't be able to overcome their own grievances to help others out, to campaign for something greater, all those things… With and without help, it's just… It's not something I could do." She let out a forced laugh. "Merlin, I'm nothing without Lavender."

"I'm sorry about her," Hermione said, turning to face Parvati. "You know I never liked her, but she didn't deserve it. Nobody did."

"I know," Parvati muttered. "But it's not the same without her. She was like a sister to me, almost like Padma. We had a dream, you know," she said, taking a breath before continuing. "We wanted to open a shop together. A bit like Fred and George, I suppose, though it wouldn't have been a joke shop, of course. Now that she's gone, though, I can't imagine my future anymore. I can't get myself to do the things you do."

Parvati sighed, and Hermione leaned back on the bench. She had no idea what was going through the other girl's head. She was usually the life of the party, so it was strange to see her so solemn and laid back. Her Pygmy Puff was changing colours again. Hermione could swear it had something to do with her emotions, but she could not tell what. She would have to ask George later, if he was willing to talk with her anyway—not that it would change her mind on how preposterous handing out those Pygmy Puffs was.

"Actually," Parvati perked up, glancing at Hermione, "I've brought something." She gestured at the box. "You weren't in Hogwarts for most of the year, so I'm not sure if you know, but Lavender and I made these rosettes back during our original seventh year. We had meant to distribute them among former DA members, but we couldn't because of the Battle. I thought I'd bring them to the party because some people might recognise it."

"That's actually a wonderful idea." Hermione nodded, and, as if on cue, her Pygmy Puff squealed also. "May I take one?"

Parvati lifted up the box, and Hermione charmed one of the rosettes onto the lapel of her robe.

"I can offer a Pygmy Puff in exchange," Hermione said, holding up the bright yellow fluff ball for Parvati to see. "George has been rather generous with them, but I can't say I appreciate the effort. You'd think he'd be more sensible than to give away illegally bred creatures," she continued with a frown that screamed disapproval.

Parvati gave the Puff a faint smile.

"I think they're cute, and they are harmless anyway. I'd love to take one home," she said. As if on cue, she turned around to the popping sound of Apparition, where a grinning George Weasley stood with a bunch of squeaking Pygmy Puffs scuttering up and down his arms.

"Almost forgot!" he exclaimed. "Here's your free Pygmy Puff!" he plucked one of the creatures off his right shoulder, plopped it down on Parvati's lap, and Disapparated before Parvati could process what was going on. She sat there, stunned, a squeaking, purple-furred little Pygmy Puff sitting on her knees.

"Well," Hermione began. "I guess that's that."

For a few moments, the two girls sat on the bench in silence, contemplating the conversation they had just had. Hermione was surprised, and perhaps a bit confused, about Parvati's outburst, and why of all people, she'd turned to her for emotional closure. Somewhere deep down, though, she could understand. The war had affected everyone, Parvati included, and they all had different ways of coping with the aftershock.

As she looked around, Hermione saw Harry talking with Draco Malfoy; the two seemed amiable enough, which was surprising, but not entirely unwelcome. As she watched the two, her mind wandered back to her Hogwarts days, her strained relationship with her dorm-mates, and how it all seemed so pointless now. _Petty teenage feuds_ , she thought.

She looked up at the sky, where the rain was receding somewhat, giving way to the beginnings of a faint rainbow. It seemed so hopeful.

If Harry could forgive Draco for what he had done in Hogwarts, so could she.

"Hey, Parvati." Hermione tapped the other witch's shoulder. Parvati whipped her head around, stroking the Pygmy Puff that had turned purple, similar to Hermione's own puff, in the meantime. "How about we go around and give out some of these rosettes? It would be nice for people to have a souvenir from this party."

Parvati beamed, nodding eagerly.

"Yeah, that's a good idea."


End file.
